
Book 



Copyright N"__ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



ECHOES FROM ERIN 



BY 



WILLIAM WESCOTT FINK 



<y 



W 



\5 



35 ) ,« 5 J } ,' 15 



> '« ', 



5 ' 3 ', ':,3 J , 3,, S^ ',' 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

^be Iknickcrbocker press 
1903 



THE LIBRARY OP 
CONGRESS. 

Two Copies R«coived 

MAY 8 1903 

Copyright Entry 

CUSS^ a. XXc No, 

COPY 6. 



f 3^ 



Copyright, 1903 

BY 

WILLIAM WESCOTT FINK 



e c , c cc , c c. ' f 
to 'cc e c «^tt << c c 



Published, April, igos 



< c' cec. r t «»« c' V t 



Ube Itniclicrbocftet fitcse, fVew Kotft 






CONTENTS 






PAGB 


Proem .... ^ . 


vii 


Echoes from Erin , . ""^^^^^^^ 


I 


In Extenuation ..... 


3 


Larrie O'Dee . . . . 


5 


" Marry Me, Darlint, To-night " 


8 


A Love-Letter from Dakota 


lO 


Michael Maloney's Serenade 


13 


McFlarity's Christmas Gift . 


• 15 


The Classical Book- Peddler . 


18 


The Musical Wooing of Michael McCray 


21 


O'Branigan's Drill .... 


24 


How the Battle was Fought . 


29 


"Remimber Kathlane" 


33 


Barney Muldoon, the "Vanus de Shiloh" 


39 


The Two Bridgets .... 


41 


Kathleen O'Dom 


44 


Paddy O'Shilf 


. 47 



IV 



CONTENTS 





PAGB 


Miscellaneous Verse .... 


• 53 


In the Grinding of the Drift 


55 


Little Tee-Hee 


59 


"The Bells that Made Her Mine" 


65 


Timothy Horn ..... 


69 


Professor Van Dom .... 


76 


* ' What Makes the Grasses Grow ? " 


82 


A Hero of Lexington .... 


86 


The Tycoon ...... 


89 


Old Job Okcenbean .... 


. 92 


In Memory of Eugene Field 


. 96 


"Hanner" ...... 


98 


The Castle of Bacchus .... 


lOI 


The Octopus 


. 107 


The Man with the Second Growth 


. 116 


John Bubble's Widow .... 


119 


General Jim ...... 


. 127 


The Nation's Nativity .... 


130 


Washington at Valley Forge 


. 132 


The Sword and Bugle of '76 


. 134 


The Price of Liberty .... 


. 139 


Zagonyi's Charge at Springfield 


138 


Leadville Jim 


• 145 


"Nigger Joe" 


. 149 



CONTENTS 


V 




PAGE 


To the Graduates .... 


162 


In Days of Old 


165 


Dreams of the Olden Times . 


167 


The Blomrog 


170 


The Polyglotwoggle .... 


172 


Cushlog 


175 


Guatimozin ...... 


179 


The Grotto Flower of EU-Banoor 


183 



ECHOES FROM ERIN 



IN EXTENUATION 

Erin, green Erin! On our western hills 
I've heard thy laughter ripple hke the rills 
That prank thine emerald glades, and music 

inake 
Where moonbeams fall round fair Killarney's 

lake ' 
For thy brave sons have breathed through all 

the earth 
Thy vitalizing oxygen of mirth. 

Land wher^ the mirth-pot sings o'er Sorrow's 

fires ; 
Where now, as ever, to Hope's funeral pyres 
Pathos leads Humor, weeping, by the bier; 
Where keen-edged wit is mellowed by a tear; 
Where Courage looks on Sorrow with a smile. 
Bidding Hope Hve for yet a Uttle while!— 
I love thy bulls and brogues, whose artless art 
Conceals the deeper meaning of the heart; 
For thou hast cast the witchery of thy spells, 
3 



4 IN EXTENUATION 

In brogues melodious as accordant bells, 
Upon my spirit. Listening, I can hear 
Thy merry laughter, Hmpid as a tear, 
And do but echo back that laughter, sprung 
From hearts mature and yet forever young. 
These be but feeble mimicries, ahone! 
Staccato notes struck from the mellower tone 
Of lips that laugh e'en though the brave heart 

bleeds, — 
Thy melodies piped back by broken reeds ; 
Yet, though these echoes fail to win thy smile, 
They speak an alien's love for Erin's Isle. 



LARRIE O'DEE 

Now the Widow McGee 
And Larrie O'Dee 
Had two little cottages out on the green, 
With just enough room for two pig-pens between. 
The widow was young, and the widow was fair, 
With the brightest of eyes, and the brownest of 

hair; 
And it frequently chanced, when she came in the 

morn 
With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the 

corn ; 
And some of the ears that he tossed from his 

hand 
In the pen of the widow were certain to land. 

One morning said he: 

"Och! Mistress McGee, 
It's a washte of good limiber, this runnin' two 

rigs, 
Wid a fancy partition between our two pigs!" 

5 



6 LARRIE a DEE 

"Indeed, sure it is," answered Widow McGee, 
With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee; 
"An' thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted an' 

mane, 
Keepin' two frindly pigs so ixceedin'ly near 
That whiniver one grunts thin the other can 

hear. 
An' yet keep a cruel partition between!" 

"Shweet Widdie McGee," 
Answered Larrie O'Dee, 
" If ye feel in yer heart we are mane to the pigs, 
Are n't we mane to oursilves to be runnin' two 

rigs? 
Och! It made me heart ache whin I peeped 

through the cracks 
Of me shanty, lasht March, at ye shwingin' yer 

axe. 
An' a-bobbin' yer head, an' a-shtompin' yer feet, 
Wid yer purrty white hands jusht as red as a 

beet; 
A-sphhttin' yer kindUn'-wood out in the shtorm, 
Whin one little shtove — it would keep us both 

warm!" 



LARRIE aDEE 7 

"Now, piggy," said she, 

"Larrie's courtin' o' me, 
Wid his dilicate, tinder allusions to you; 
So now, ye musht tell me jusht what I musht do : 
For, if I 'm to say yes, shtir the shwill wid yer 

shnout ; 
But if I 'm to say no, ye musht keep yer nose out. 
Now, Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig 
By tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!" 
' ' Me darlint , the piggy says ' yesl ' ' ' answered he : 
And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee. 



"MARRY ME, DARLINT, TO-NIGHT 

Me darlint, it's axin' they are 

That I goes to the wars to be kilt, 

An' come back wid an iHgant scar, 
An' a sabre hung on to a hilt. 

They offers promotion to those 
Who dies in definse of the right ; 

I '11 be off in the mornin', — suppose 
Ye marry me, darhnt, to-night. 

There 's nothin' so raises a man 
In the eyes of the world as to fall 

Ferninst the ould flag, in the van, 
Pierced through wid a bit of a ball. 

An' whin I am kilt ye can wear 
Some iligant crape on yer bonnet ; 

Jusht think how the women will shtare 
Wid invy whiniver ye don it ! 



•* MARK V ME, DARLINT, TO-NIGHT " 5 

Oh ! phwat a proud widdy ye '11 be 

Whin they bring me corpse home, not to min- 
tion 
The fact we can live — don't ye see? — 

All the rest of our lives on me pinsion ! 



A LOVE-LETTER FROM DAKOTA 

Shweet Jinny, I write on me knee 

Wid the shtump of a limited pincil ; 
I would write on me disk, but you see 

I 'm widout that convainient utinsil. 
I 've a house of me own, but as yet 

Me furniture's homely an' shlinder; 
It 's a wife I am afther, to let 

Her consult her ideals of sphHnder. 
If I should buy tables an' chairs, 

An' bureaus an' carpets an' vases, 
An' — bother the lingo of wares! — 

An' curtains wid camel-hair laces, 
Perhaps whin I married a wife 

She would turn up her nose at me choosin'. 
Or waysht the shweet bloom of her life 

Wid pretinse of contint at their usin'. 
So now, I've no carpets to shweep, 

Nor tables nor chairs to tip o'er; 
Whin night comes I roll up an' shleep 

As contint as a pig on the floor. 



A LOVE-LETTER FROM DAKOTA II 

But, ah, the shweet dreams that I dream 

Of Erin's most beautiful daughter! 
Until in me visions you seem 

On your way to me over the water! 
( — Please pardon me method ungainly, 

But hopin' the future may yoke us, 
I '11 try to be bould an' speak plainly. 
An' bring me note down to a focus : — ) 
Would you marry a man wid a farrum, 
An' a house most ixquisitely warrum, 
Wid walls so ixceedin'ly thick, ma'am. 
For they're built of a single big brick, ma'am, 
Touchin' Mexico, Texas, Nebrasky, — 

The thickest walls iver you thought of, 

Why, they' cover the country we bought of 
The sire of Alexis — Alasky ! 
For sure its great walls are the worruld, — 

In fact it 's a hole in the ground ; 
But, oh! it's the place to be curruled 

Whin the whirlwinds are twirlin' around! 
It is ivery bit basemint except 

The parlor, that lies out-of-doors, 
Where the zephyrs' pure fingers have swept 

Its million-ply carpeted floors. 



12 A LOVE-LETTER FROM DAKOTA 

Forgive me ixtravigant speeches, 

But it 's fair as the dreams of a Hindoo, 

Wid me parlor's unlimited reaches, 
And the sky for a sunny bay-window. 

Me darlint, Dakota is new, 

Sod houses are here widout number. 
But I '11 build a board mansion for you — 

Whin I 'm able to purchase the lumber. 
An' sure 't will not take very long 

Where the soil is so fertile, I'm tould; 
Whin you tune up your plough for a song, 

The earth hums a chorus of gould. 

Thin come to your Dinnis O'Brion, 

An' let his fidelity prove 
That his heart is as shtrong as a lion, 

Except that it 's burstin' wid love. 



MICHAEL MALONEY'S SERENADE 

Oh! Nora McCune! 
Is it draimin' ye are? 

Is it wakin', or shleepin' ye be? 
'T is the dark of the moon, 
An' there 's niver a star 

To watch if ye 're peepin' at me. 
Throw open yer bhnds, shweet love, if ye 're 
there ; 
An' if ye are not, plaze be shpakin'; 
An' if ye 're incHned, ye might bring yer guitar, 
An' help rfie me darlint to waken. 

I am lonely ! Ahone ! 

An' I'm Michael Maloney, 

Awaken, shweet Nora McCune. 
For, love, I 'm alone, 

An' here's Larrie Mahoney, 

An' Dinnis O'Rouk an' Muldoon. 
I've brought thim to jine in the song I'll be 
singin'; 

13 



14 MICHAEL MALONETS SERENADE 

For, Nora, shweet Nora McCune, 
Ye've shtarted me heart-strings so loudly to 
ringin', 
One person can't carry the chune! 

But don't be unaisy, 
Me darlint, for fear 

Our saycrit of love should be tould ; 
Mahoney is crazy, 

An' Dinnis can't hear; 

Muldoon is struck dumb wid a could. 
Their backs are all facin' the window, me dear, 
An' they've shworn by the horn of the moon 
That niver a note of me song would they hear 
That refers to shweet Nora McCune. 



McFLARITY'S CHRISTMAS GIFT 

"It's Christmas day, 

Shweet Jenny McShea, 
An' I bring ye a shplindid rarity, 

A Christmas gift 

Ye niver can lift ; 
It's mesilf— it is Ted McFlarity!" 

"Och! Ted, go 'way 

Wid yer boyish play ! 
Ye 're rude,, an' I ne'er could shtay wid ye: 

Put the gift on the shilf 

An' be off wid yersilf ! 
Shtop! Ye 're takin' the gift away wid ye!" 

"Ah! Jenny, me dear. 

The gift is here! 
A refusal would shtop the breath o' me; 

An' I 'd always say, 

'Till me dyin' day, 
That it caused the immadiate death o' me." 
15 



l6 MCFLARITY S CHRISTMAS GIFT 

"Och! Teddy, me Ted! 

Is it thrue ye 're dead? 
Ahone! For the life's gone out o' me. 

Come back to yer life ! 

Come back to yer wi]el 
An' ye niver shall have any doubt o' me." 

"I am speechless! Me queen, 

Is it true ye mane 
Ye accipt the gift along wid the giver?" 

"Yes, Ted, to be sure, 

Any lass would indure, 
For the sake of the gift, yer shweet prisince 
foriver." 

"Ah! Jenny McShea, 

Ye '11 bliss the day 
Whin yer name it is Mrs. McFlarity; 

Wid a cow an' a pig, 

An' a bit of a gig. 
We will aiqual the shtyle of O'Garrity. 

"Then Jenny, me Jane, 
Along the lane 



MCFLARITY'S CHRISTMAS GIFT 

Of life we '11 walk so pacefuUy, 

An' whin we 've died 

We'll weep beside 
Each other's graves so gracefully. 

"A place I'll dig, 

An' plant a sprig 
Of shamrock o'er yours tinderly! 

An' over mine 

Ye '11 plant a vine 
Wid branches shpreadin' shlinderly ! '* 

"Och! Teddy, me Ted! 

Whin ye are dead 
I '11 weep me eyes out o'er ye, Ted. 

An' the grief, ahone. 

Of livin' alone 
Will kill me long before ye, Ted! 

"The blue o' the skies 

Is in yer eyes. 
An' the teardrops shinin' glimmery. 

Don't weep, me Ted, 

For afther I 'm dead 
I will iver be thrue to yer mimory!" 



THE CLASSICAL BOOK-PEDDLER 

He was tall and slim, with a clear-cut face, 
That is, with a mouth cut clear across; 

His smile, the perfection of Grecian grace. 
And his hair had taken from grease its gloss. 

His brow was protuberant, broad, and low, 
And his nose had the classical outline seen 
In the beautiful isle called Ssintoreeu , 

In the Grecian Archipelago. 

He drew from a fanciful oil-cloth pack 
A volume of Homer, and bade me scan 

Its tangle of letters. Thought I, "Alack! 
I must play I'm a bibulous Irishman." 

''Here's a volume," said he, "which you will 
• like. 
The Grecian tongue in its loveliest form." 
Then I answered : ' ' Bedad ! that 's news to Mike. 
A tongue in a book? Is it could, or warm? " 
i8 



THE CLASSICAL BOOK-PEDDLER 1 9 

He said: "It was Homer who wrote of Troy, 
How the Isles of Greece were lit by the 
flame " 

"Too expinsive!" said I. "For Mike M alloy 
Lar-r-d ile is the grase, an' I '11 use the same." 



Then he said: " Dear sir, you quite mistake. 

I speak of the Greek — the Grecian tongue; 
How the brave Agamemnon fought to break 

The power of Troy, when the world was young. 



"Go learn in the Attic the euphony - 
"I lives in an attic now!" I said. 



But this classical peddler heard not me, 

For he answered, "The Greek is a tongue not 
dead. 



"Ah! the Greek! The Greek is the sweetest 
tongue ; 

'Tau sigma omicron pi rho nu ' " 

" Bad luck to yer brogue!" I cried. " Be hung, 

Wid yer blatherty, hatherty, higglety blul" 



20 THE CLASSICAL BOOK-PEDDLER 

But still he said, tenderly, " ' Mou, emoi — ' 
How sweetly the soft, rich vowels blend!" 

Then I hissed: "Take that, from Mike Malloy!" 
And he went down-stairs with a Grecian bend. 



THE MUSICAL WOOING OF MICHAEL 
McCRAY 

Sure, Pat, it's the truth 

That the happiest youth 
Who e'er winked at the mornin' is Michael 
McCray, 

For I 've won the complaitest 

An' shweetest an' naitest 
Colleen that 's adornin' ould Erin to-day. 

I know the immortals 

Came down from the portals 
Of glory to tune up her beautiful throat, 

For whin she is singin' 

It 's like the soft ringin' 
Of anthems whin, draimin', through heaven ye 
float. 

So I said to her: **Darlint, 
The invious starlint 

21 



22 MUSICAL WOOING OF MICHAEL McCRA Y 

Is tryin' to practice yer music, me dear! 

The nightingale 's singin' 

Sets all the world ringin' 
In praise of its beauty; but, faix! could he hear 

"Ye deliver wan note 

From yer quiverin' throat, 
He'd perish wid melody's shweet ipi/z^sy ; 

An' aiven the raven 

Would be aft her laivin', 
For fear wid yer music his soul would grow 
tipsy." 

Then rippled her laughter: 

" Och, Mike! Are ye daft, sir? 
Is it nothin' ye love but a musical note? 

Arrah! Cease from yer sportin' ! 

Was iver such courtin' ? 
Do ye think that I carry me heart in me throat ? " 

I felt me soul sinkin', 
But suddenly thinkin' — 
"I know where yer heart is, me darlint," sez I. 
Sez she: "If ye 're knowin', 
Why can't ye be showin' 



MUSICAL WOOING OF MICHAEL MCCRA V 23 

Yer knowledge by methods more manly, me 
b'y?" 

"Me b'y! " Oh, the shplindor 

Of hearin' the tinder 
Ixprission! And, claspin' her dilicate waist, 

I cried: "Me life's treasure, 

I '11 show ye wid pleasure, — 
Yer heart 's in the arm of me homage embraced!" 

"Arrah! What are ye shpaikin'? 

Now be afther takin' 
Yer arrum from around me, dear Michael," sez 
she; 

But what do ye think, sir? 

The shweet bobolink, sir, 
Held on to me hand so I could n't, ye see! 



O'BRANIGAN'S DRILL. 

The echoes of Sumter had thrilled through the 

land, 
And Michael O'Branigan, born to command, 
Obtained a commission; a word, and a nod, 
And his roster was filled with the sons of "the 

sod." 
It is true that his knowledge of tactics was 

scant ; 
When he wished to "oblique," his command 

would be " Shlant " ; 
But he knew the importance of practical skill ; 
And, marching his company out to a hill, 
Proceeded with this introductory drill : 

' ' Attintion ! Right drish ! — be that token is mint 
That aich av yez keeps his next neighbor fernint. 
Shtand up like mesilf , an' look martial an' brave, 
Wid a soldierly bearin'; Mulcahey, ye knave, 
Don't ye offer to shtep from the ranks — till ye 
lave! 

24 



aSRANIGAN'S DRILL 2$ 

*' Attintion ! Fix bayonets ! Jusht for the drill, 
We will play that the foe is a houldin' the hill. 
Now, quick, double char-r-r-r-ge ! an' I'll lade 

the way; 
An' this is yer watchword — phwat is it? — 

Hooray!" 

But the captain was fat. With a whoop and a 

cheer, 
His men darted past him, till, far in the rear, 
He panted: "Shtop! Halt! till I come to me 

breath ; 
Give O'Branigan time an' he'll lade ye till death; 
Halt, Rafferty, Lafferty, wait till I come! 
Shtand shtill, an' mark time to the bate av the 

drum. 
It is n't the rulable usage av war 
To follow yer captain — unless he's before. 
Liftinant Muldoon, turn the min right about, 
Wid their noses in line an' their breashts 

shtickin' out 
Like pigeons drawn up on the top av a fince. 
Make ready — I mane: Come ahead there! — 

Commince 1 



26 aBRANIGAN'S DRILL 

Right — le^t — now, left — right — no! yer le]t legs 

are right! 
Arrah ! Whisht ! Yer right legs would get left 

in a fight ! 
Patsy, look at ye! hoppin' wid both feet at 

wance ! 
If ye '11 turn an' jump backward perhaps ye '11 

advance ! 
Right — left — now, left — right — no! yer right 

legs are wrong! 
Keep back there, Mulcahey, yer nose is too long! 
Right — left — now, left — right — now, right — left 

— now, left — right — 
Faix! Ye 're tangled like Kilkinnie cats in a 

fight! 
Halt ! Shtop ! Turn around ! Get yer noses in 

line: 
If ye knew how to shtep, ye could march pur-r-ty 

fine! 

** Attintion ! To prove to our foemen their folly, 
We'll load up our rifles an' give thim a volley; 
An', to show how composed a bould souldier can 
St hand. 



aBRANIGAN S DRILL 2/ 

I will shtep to the front while I give the com- 
mand. 
Make ready, — take aim, — Patsy, point yer gun 

higher ! 
Don't shut the wrong eye whin ye 're aimin' it 

—Fire! 
Och, murther! I'm kilt! Sargint Murphy, ye 

brute. 
Don't ye know, whin ye ounly blank cartridges 

shoot. 
If yer ramrod ye happen to lave in yer gun 
It's more deadly than twinty-eight bullets in 

wan? 
Jusht look at me hat wid its horrible rint, 
An' its iligant aigle to smithereens sint ! 
Ye 're arrishted! Mind that! Me hat's blood 

ye have shpilt! 
I 'd have hung ye for murther if I had been kilt! 
An' ye 're Sargint to-day av the Guar-r-r-r-d, 

Murphy ! Whisht ! 
Go report to yersilf as put under arrisht!" 

Then O'Branigan, wishing his men to disband, 
But forgetting the tactical form of command 



28 aSRANIGAN S DRILL 

To "break ranks," with a quizzical countenance 

turned : 
"Scatther out, me Kilkinnies, the meetin's 

adjourned." 

So closed the first drill; but they proved, when 

the field 
In the chaos of jarring artillery reeled, 
That, to quote a plain soldier's description, "So 

far 
As concerns the tough tussle and business of war, 
O'Branigan's flannel-mouthed veterans were 

there y 



HOW THE BATTLE WAS FOUGHT. 

The fiercest battle av the war 

Our rigimint was in 
Was fought five miles away from camp 

By me an' Paddy Flynn, 
Where we ingaged the inimy, — 

Full forty thousand min. 

Widout a pass we passed the guard; 

The past comes up to me! 
An' I can see our fearless force, 

Wid motions bould an' free, 
March bravely through the ribel land, — 

Dodgin' from tree to tree. 

We left the woods, we crossed the hills; 

Plantations shpread around; 
The purtiest pigs in the world we saw 

In a field av corn, but found, 
Whin try in' to shoot thim noiselessly, 

Our theory was unsound. 
29 



30 HOW THE BATTLE WAS FOUGHT 

The inimy rose up behint 

The corn rows in the field ; 
Thin we appealed to strategy, 

An' loud our rifles pealed, — 
Not at the ribels, but the pigs. 

An', murther, how they squealed! 

"Charge, Pat!" sez I. "Faix, Mike," sez he, 
"I'll shtop an' charge me gun." 

"No, Pat," sez I, "we'll charge the pigs, 
An' put thim on the run: 

They'll think we're Sherman in the corn. 
An' scatther, ivery wan." 

"The pigs?" sez he. "The Ribs!" sez I. 

An' thin we raised a shout, 
An' charged the pigs till each wan blew 

A bugle wid its shnout, 
An', crashin' toward the inimy, 

Put ivery wan to rout. 

"They're gone!" sez I. "Bad luck!" sez he, 

"An' not a rib to ate!" 
"Ate Ribs!" sez I; "ye cannibal! 

On yer own kind to bait!" 



HOW THE BATTLE WAS FOUGHT 3 1 

"Zounds, Mike, I'm not a hog!" sez he, 
"Shpare-ribs are shpUndid mate!" 

"Shpare Ribs!" sez I, "whin I ate min 

I 'd rather have thim fat." 
"Phwat min?" sez he. "The Ribs!" sez I. 

"Ye 're crazy, Mike!" sez Pat. 
Sez I, " It 's ye that 's crazy, 

An' a cannibal at that! 



"Ye'd ate dead Ribels Uke a hog, 

Widout a thought av sin ! 
Come on! If ye'd ate human mate. 

Ye might as well begin; 
We musht have killed a hundred 

Out av fort}^ thousand min." 

"Phwat min?" sez he. "The Ribs!" sez I. 

Thin Paddy Flynn turned white. 
Sez he, " D' ye mane the Ribels, Mike?" 

Sez I, "Me b'y, ye 're right — 
Joe Johnston's army that we've whipped 

In the fiercest kind av fight." 



32 HO IV THE BATTLE WAS FOUGHT 

"Whisht, Mike! Where are they now?" sez he. 

"Faix, Pat, they've run!" sez I. 
"Phwat did they run from, Mike?" sez he. 

"From our pigs an' guns," sez I. 
"D' ye think they all wint off?" sez he. 

"Yis, ivery wan," sez I. 

Sez he, "How did ye know that there 

Were forty thousand min?" 
Sez I, "I heard thim cock their guns 

Behind the corn, an' thin " 

Sez he, "We'd betther shtart for camp 

Before they come ag'in!" 

"No, Pat," sez I, "we'll hould the field!" 

Jusht thin a bugle blew, 
An' a shquad av Ribel cavalry 

Came driftin' into view 
Two miles away ! Thin Patsy wint ! 

Moreover, / wint, too! 



"REMIMBER KATHLANE" 

"Now, Larrie and Jimmie, be off to yer bed. 

It 's ten by the clock if it 's anything — whisht ! 
Yer father is coming, as drunk as a baste ; 

Shlip under the quilts, or ye '11 feel his fisht! 

' ' I have struggled to be a good wife to Tim ; 
But he niver shall bate the poor lads any 
more ! 
An' I 'm bound to have pace in the house to- 
night,— 
If this poker can lay him to shleep on the floor ! 

"Tim! Tim! Have ye come to me sober, to- 
night ? 
Oh, Tim! Are ye sober? Dear Tim, tell me 
quick ! 
Oh! ye darlint, ould shplindid, ould sober, ould 
Tim! 
I'm so glad ye are sober. But, Tim, are ye 
sick, 

33 



34 " REMIMBER KA THLANE " 

That ye passed the saloons widout tastin' a drop, 
Whin yer t'roat was so dry, an' ye wanted to 
shtop?" 

"I am sober, Kathlane. Where's Larrie an' 
Jimmie ? 
For ounly this moment I peeped in between 
The rags in the windy an' saw thim both here; 
Ye have shlipped thim to bed in a hurry, 
Kathlane." 

*' Yes, Tim. But, dear Tim, don't be angry wid 
me; 
I heard ye, an' feared ye were drunk, an' 
would bate 
The darlint gossoons, so I hurried thim off, 
An' they bounced into bed with the brogues 
on their feet." 

"Kathlane, shweet Kathlane, it's a bashte I 

have been; 

But I '11 niver bate ye nor the boys any more. 

But, answer an* tell me the mainin', Kathlane, 

Of this ugly ould poker ye dropped on the 

floor?" 



'' REMIMBER KATHLANE'' 35 

" Och ! Tim, ye are full of yer questions to-night. 

I 'd been pokin' the fire a little, an' thin 
I thought I 'd jusht hould the ould poker awhile 

To save throuble, for fear I might need it 
agin." 

"Kathlane, it is strange! Whin I peeped 

through the pane 
An' the rags, the ould poker shtood yonder, 
Kathlane ; 
An' did n't I hear, as I shtood by the door, 
That I niver should bate the poor lads any 
more? 
Did the ould poker second the motion, Kath- 
lane, .. 
An' fall in a fit of pure joy on the floor? 

"Hould up yer dear head! I don't blame ye, 
Kathlane. 
Hould up yer dear head; for I see the white 
hair 
Has crept all too soon through yer tresses, Kath- 
lane, 
An' yer face has grown weary an' wrinkled 
wid care. 



36 " REM 1MB ER KA THLANE " 

Hould Up yer dear head! I have something to 

say 
That, maybe, will drive the poor wrinkles away." 

** Don't hurry, dear Tim! Keep yer hand on me 

head; 
'T is the ould loving touch that ye gave me 

whin young. 
Shpake gintly, an' slow, wid the voice that to 

me 
Was the shweetest of music that iver was sung. 
Shpake slowly, dear Tim; don't hurry thim 

past, — 
These momirits of joy far too happy to last." 

" Kathlane, they shall last ! Me darlint, to-night 
As I walked down the shtreet, whin I came to 
the door 
Of Pat Rowlin's saloon, where I take me first 
drink, 
I niver thought else than to shtop, but before 
I entered, a voice whishpered gintle an' plain 
In me ear, an' it whishpered, ' Remimber Kath- 
lane!' 



'' REMIMBER KATHLANE" 37 

''Somehow, me desire for whiskey was gone 

Till I came to the bar of ould Teddy McShane ; 
Thin, oh! how I wanted to drink! But the 
voice 
Drove me thirst all away wid 'Remimber 
Kathlane ! ' 

"I wandered for miles up an' down the long 
shtreets 
To escape from the voice, but, me darlint, 
't was vain ; 
For wheriver I wint, fell the words on me ear. 
So sayseless an' mournful, ' Remimber Kath- 
lane!' 

" 'T was the voice of me love that had shlum- 
bered so long 
In the night wid which whiskey had deadened 

me brain. 

Unthinkin', I wint to the Timperance Hall; 
Thin the voice plead, so shweetly, ' Remimber 
Kathlane ! ' 

"I entered, an' shlipped to a sate in the rear, 
Behind all the rest , that I might not be seen ; 



38 ''REMIMBER KA THLANE " 

An' shpaikers were shpaikin', but all I could hear 
Was, ' Remimber, remimber, remimber Kath- 
lane ! ' 

"They brought me the pledge, an' they axed me 
to sign. 

I took it, but somehow a misht fell between 
Me eyes an' the pen; — an', instead of Tim Flynn, 

I found I had written, 'Remimber Kathlane!' 

"Thin I wrote underneath it me name! an' I 
felt 
Shweet pace in me soul, an' a power to sus- 
tain; 
An' if iver timptation should come to me now, 
Remimber, me dear, I '11 remimber Kathlane.' 



BARNEY MULDOON 

THE "VANUS DE SHILOH " 

Yis, sorr, I was wounded at Shiloh, 
For Barney Muldoon did his duty; 

I'm a ginuine Vanus de Milo, 

That is, of course, barrin' the beauty; 

For the Vanus has lost both her arrums, 
An', be jabers, I 've lost both of mine; 

I 'm her counterpart, barrin' the charrums, 
An' we'fe both in the mindicant line. 

They paints the poor girl on a pannel 

An' hangs her up over a shilf ; 
We are both in sore need of some flannel, 

An' it 's laid on the shilf is mesilf . 

Yet she's a perpitual shleeper, 

So between us there comes this dishparity, 
For I can shtill open wan peeper 

To behould the extint of yer charity. 
39 



40 BARNEY MULDOON 

God bless ye! says Barney Muldoon, 
For this coat for the Vanus de Shiloh; 

If ye '11 give me a five-dollar boon 
I will shpind it for Vanus de Milo! 

Oh, yis ! It is grand to get shkars 

Whin the needs of yer country require 'em. 

I would pack forty guns to the wars, 
If I ounly had fingers to fire 'em. 

Yet wan thing is lackin' to me: 

Could I truthfully tell the brave shtory 

That I died for me country, I 'd be 

All me life jusht a-shwimmin' in glory. 



THE TWO BRIDGETS 

It is throubled, I am, over Bridget's intint 

In rettirnin' me purty bouquet. 
She might have explained, I am sure, phwat she 

mint ; 
She could n't have read the shweet note that I 
sint, 
Or she would n't have served me that way. 

I tould her me roses would pale 

Whin kissed by her rosier lips ; 
The pride of me lilies would fail 

At the touch of her fingers' fair tips. 
I tould her the blue of her eyes 

Was deeper than violets knew, 
That the pink of her cheeks would surprise 

Me pinks wid their dilicate hue ; 
That her breath was the incense of bloom 

Distilled from the censers of May, 
Sweeter far than the softest perfume 

Of the flowers in me purty bouquet. 
41 



«l 



42 THE TWO BRIDGETS 

I tould of me love for her, tould 

How, in draimin', her failures I conned, 
How her hair was a halo of gould, 

An' I called her "Me Bridget, me blonde!" 
I tould her — phwat else did I write? — 

Ahone! Let me raid me poor note: 
" Yer hair it is blacker than night — " 

Och, murther! Is this phwat I wrote? — 
"Dear Bridget, this purty bouquet 

Is a symbol of sintiments thrue. 
That mesilf, which is Dinnis McCray, 

Is afther expressin' to you. 
But its roses will pale in the light 

Of yer shplindid dark Spanish complexion, 
That has filled me poor soul wid delight, 

An' me mouth wid a dumb interjection. 
The fire in yer eye is the blaze 

Of a soul in a censer of jet ; 
Let it shine on me heart, if ye plaze, 

Me Bridget, me queenly brunette! 
They may talk about tresses of gould, 

An' cheeks that are redder than roses, 
Forgettin' they often behould 

The same tints on intimperate noses!" 



THE TWO BRIDGETS 43 

Me soul is in ashes ! Ahone ! 

It 's the letter I posted last fall 
To that hideous Bridget Malone! 

An' she would n't accept me at all! 

It 's surprised I Simnot at blonde Bridget's intint 

In retumin' me purty bouquet. 
Och ! Here 's the blonde note that I wrote ! — Thin 

I wint, 
An' the copy I saved of black Bridget's I sint! 

Bad luck to me, Dinnis McCray! 



KATHLEEN O'DORN 

It was even before you were born, me dear, 

While I still was a bit of a b'y, 
That I loved the sweet name of O'Dorn, me dear. 

Though, of course, I could niver tell why. 
For I niver had heard the name spoken. 
But I knew by a mystical token 
I would marry, some day, an O'Dorn, me dear. 

With the blue of the sky in her eye. 

An' I knew her dear name was Kathleen, me 
dear, 

That her voice was exceedingly sweet, 
That her hair was a glittering sheen, me dear, 

Falling down to her beautiful feet. 
An' she came to me oft in me dreaming. 

With her gintle eyes tinderly beaming, 
An' I knew that her name was Kathleen, me 
dear. 

By the light of her countenance sweet. 

44 



KATHLEEN O'DORN 45 

Oh! I loved her so tinderly then, me dear, 

Ivery line of her dilicate face, 
An' I sought her again an' again, me dear, 

In ivery conceivable place; 
For the voice of the linnet and starling 
Seemed to chirrup, "Me darling! Me darling!" 
An' the leaves in the woodland an' glen, me dear, 

Hummed a song of her goodness an' grace. 

Ah! they were no changeable fancies, me dear, 

I could paint ivery wave in her hair ; 
There fell on me eyes the same glances, m_e dear, 

Though I wandered from Cork to Kildare. 
An' I knew 1 would know her whiniver 
I'd meet her; for God, the All-Giver, 
Lends no hope that a heart so entrances, me 
dear, 
But He adds the fruition of prayer. 

So I met you Sint Valentine's morn, me dear. 

Than me radiant vision more sweet, 
An' I knew that your name was O'Dorn, me 
dear, 



46 KATHLEEN O'DORN 

An' me soul straightway bowed at your feet, 
Before even a word had been spoken ; 
But your eyes gave the answering token; 
It was then that fruition was born, me dear, 

Kathleen, of me vision so sweet! 



PADDY O'SHILF 

(There are well authenticated cases of persons who, 
on account of accident to the brain or of some un- 
natural pressure on that organ, have lost all sense of 
personal identity: and, having wandered away from 
home and friends, have been found after the lapse of 
years among strangers, living under a different name 
and without any recollection of their former lives.) 

How I came by me name, which is Paddy 

O'Shilf, 
I don't know, nor, indeed, how I came by 

mesilf. 
The shweet, rosy fancies av infancy's morn 
Niver blissed me young life, for I niver was born. 
I was niver a child, — it's the truth I have 

tould, — 
For the first thing I knew I was forty years ould : 
And, what is more strange, on me very first day 
Me clothes they were ragged, me hair it was 

gray; 
I had feet that were tinder wid thrampin' the 

sod. 
And a corn on me shoulder from bearin' the hod. 

47 



48 PADDY aSHILF 

Oh! you who have parints, or iver have had 

'em, — 
And ivery wan has except me and poor Adam, — 
Don't scorn the sad shtory, the sorrowful riddle 
Av a poor lad whose life was comminced in the 

middle ! 
Here I am — a great hog that was niver a pig! 
A crooked ould tree that was niver a twig ! 
A wild, rovin' cat that was niver a kitten! 
A postcript to a letter that niver was written! 
A flame widout fuel, a lafe widout limb ; 
A great, awkward pumpkin widout any shtim! 

At first, I could hardly belave me own shtory, 
That no parints av mine had prayceded before 

me: 
From graveyard to graveyard I wandered and 

read 
On aich desolate tombstone the name av the 

dead; 
But niver a tomb have I iver found yet 
Wid the ipitaph : " Here lies the mither av Pat ! " 

Av the long ginerations both livin' an' dead 
I 'm the ounly relation I iver have had — 



PADDY O'SHILF 49 

Except wan, me grandfather: 'twas down in 

Killarney 
I found his dear tomb. Though his first name 

was Barney, 
His last was O'Shilf ! An' though my name is 

Pat, 
I 'm sure he 's a riHtive spite av all that ; 
For how in the worruld could he be an O'Shilf 
Widout bein' some kind av a kin to mesilf ? 

Eighty years o'er his tomb had the shamrock 

grown green 
And the ivy clung close ; but I read in between 
The shweet laves his dear name, and wept whin 

it tould 
Me poor grandfather died whin jusht twinty 

days ould! 
But if he had lived I am sure he would be 
Grandfather, or — something-or-other to me. 

How oft in me thramps whin I shlept in a shed, 
While the rain beat tattoos on the roof overhead, 
I have felt in me draims a soft hand on me 

cheek — 
While I lay like a rogue, too dishonest to shpaik, 



50 PADDY aSHILF 

Lest the shweet vision-mither who shtood by me 

thin, 
Should diskiver her babe was a middle-aged 

man ! 

Whin falls the black night av me loneliness o'er 

me, 
Wid the thought that no mither av mine lived 

before me, 
So shtrong grow the longin's that burden me 

mind 
For a mither, I know if I iver should find 
A woman, or aivin a 'inan who would be 
A mither, or aivin shtep-mither to me, 
Ah! I'd draw mesilf up jusht as shmall as I 

could 
Till I'd look like an innocent infant child 

should : 
How I 'd shpread out me hands ! How I 'd dig 

for me eyes ! 
How I'd see the big world wid a look av sur- 
prise ! 
How I'd puff out me cheeks! How I'd crow! 

How I'd choke! 



PADDY aSHILF 5 I 

How I 'd laugh whin me mither, or shtep-mither 

shpoke ! 
Oh, the bliss for a momint a baby to be 
And weep for piire joy wid me head on her knee! 
I would aivin submit to be larrupped an' bate 
By ker, though it be wid the brogues from her 

feet. 
I 'd rejice at the pain, an' would chirish aich 

scar 
As a pricious an' tinder reminder av her. 



'I 



MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 



53 



IN THE GRINDING OF THE DRIFT 

'T WAS a little Southern town, 
By the river nestling down. 
Quaint and quiet, tucked away 
From the busy world, it lay 
Where the stranger seldom found it, 
With its cypress swamps around it. 

Rain, from morning until night ; 

Rain through darkness till the dawn — 
Time for dawn ; but scarce the light 

Pierced the veil the world had on, 
And the night came down again. 
Softly in her robes of rain. 
Peaceful lay the village, covered 

By a silence strangely deep ; 
For the human brood was hovered 

'Neath the drowsy wings of sleep. 

55 



56 IN THE GRINDING OF THE DRIFT 

But the cypress stained lagoons, 
Nature's sombre souled quadroons, 
Felt the tonic of the rain 
Stealing through each sluggish vein, 
And through deep and dismal fens 
SHd they from their slimy dens. 
Whispering low: "We come, we come! 

Lead us, river, strong and free! 
We will sound Death's muffled drum 

From the cypress to the sea." 
So the river heard the tramp 

Of the waters through the night ; 
Saw the demon of the swamp 

Swing his jack-o'-lantern light. 

Silent as an army stealing 

On its unsuspecting foe. 
Roar of rain its steps concealing. 

Rose the river from below ; 
Climbed the hill with stealthy tread, 
Sent its skirmish waves ahead, 
Captured each unguarded boat. 
Set the wooden walks afloat. 
Turned the streets to rivers wide, 



IN THE GRINDING OF THE DRIFT 57 

Touched the houses, stole inside, 

CHmbing higher still and higher 

Till it sang amidst the fire, 

While the embers answered, screaming. 

But the warning was in vain, 
For the people lay a-dreaming 

To the lullaby of rain. 

Suddenly the thunder spoke 

Till the world rocked to and fro, 

And the little town awoke 
In the clutches of its foe. 

"It is mine!" the tempest cried. 
"No! 'T is mine!" the flood replied, 
"Mine! The water-spout has sent me 

Reinforcements. It is mine!" 
Roared the hideous cloud: "Content thee! 

Wreck and ruin join the line!" 

Burying deep the cypress knees. 
Rushed the furious waters down, 

And with battering-rams of trees 
Smote and crushed the little town. 



58 IN THE GRINDING OF THE DRIFT 

What was man ? A being dizzy 

In the terrible uphft. 
What was home ? A fragile bubble 

In the grinding of the drifj:. 
What was love? A lifetime focused 

In an agonizing kiss, 
Seeking still one last expression 

Through the water's angry hiss. 
What was life? A lighted taper, 

Which the furious tide put out. 
What remained? One stubborn chimney. 

With the waters all about. 



LITTLE TEE-HEE 

It was over the sea, in the land of tea, 
By the beautiful river they call Yang-Tse, 
To which an additional name they hang 
Making the river Yang-Tse- Kiang, 
A baby was bom in a Chinese town ; 
But a look of scorn and a terrible frown 
On the face of the father was seen to curl, 
When he learned that the baby was only a girl. 

Now the father, whose name was Hang U. High, 
Was the last of the race of the great I. Ligh, 
The father of Chinese history. 
He was very proud of his pedigree. 
And even declared that his lineage ran 
In a line direct to the very first man. 
His greatest ambition was now to see 
Another limb on his family tree, 
A boy who could finally step in his place, 
Down the race-course of time to continue his 
race; 

59 



6o LITTLE TEE-HEE 

But alas for his hopes! "Chug um whirl! 

Chug um whirl!" 
He muttered, which means, " It 's a girl! It 's a 

girl!" 
And he angrily hissed, "Clack whang bog 

lound!" 
Which means in their language, "It must be 

drowned!" 

Though the mother, in words that sound im- 
prudent. 
Insipidly pleaded, " Oh, Hang U. / would n't ! " 
He sternly answered, "Clack whang bo quid!" 
Which means in their language, "It must be 

did." 
So he called his servant and said, " Ar Chang, 
Go drown that thing in the river Kiang ' ' ; 
Then turned away, with an angry glare. 
To smoke his pipe in the open air. 

But the good Ar Chang had a tender heart. 
He saw it was hard for the mother to part 
From her little girl, yet, strange to tell, 
The sorrow that on his heart-strings fell 
Affected the strings of his purse as well. 



LITTLE TEE-HEE 6 1 

Still he could n't think what in the world to do, 
And he stood in agony clutching his queue 
And pulling it downward until he drew 
His eyes clear up to the top of his head, 
Till they looked like long diagonal gashes 
Stretched over his forehead and fringed with 

lashes ; 
Then, letting them down, — " I have it ! " he said. 
But the rest that he said I will tell to thee 
In the very words it was told to me 
By that honest, efficient, and noble Chinee 
Who charged me two prices for my "washee." 
He said: " I got gul-ee same old like this, — 
Got too much-ee gul-ee ; my wif e-ee no miss 
One gul-ee^. Ah Chang save-ee yo' gul-ee life; 
I take-ee yo' gul-ee light home to my wife, 
I dlown-ee my gul-ee in liver Kiang! 
You give-ee much money to poo* Ah Chang!" 
Then gratitude stole down the beautiful slants 
Of the mother's long eyes, and she gave such a 

glance 
Of approval, he cried, " I would lather be Chang, 
And serve such a generous mistless, than 

Hang!" 



62 LITTLE TEE-HEE 

He carried Tee-Hee to his own little hut, 

Where the floors were of dirt and the frescos of 
soot, 

And said to his wife, "I have swapped for Tee- 
Hee. 

We must dlown-ee our gul-ee in liver Yang- 
Tse,— 

And our mistless she give-ee much money to 
we!" 

"I will go," answered she, "and wrap Minnee 
Ting Loo 

In Tee-Hee 's little mantle and bring her to 
you," 

And then, with a smile of approval, withdrew. 

Now it chanced Mrs. Chang had the masculine 

art 
Of "playing it low" and concealing her heart, 
In short, of enacting a duplicate part. 
For, expecting a time when her husband would 

say,— 
"We are poor; we '11 put Minnee Ting out of the 

way," 
She had built a rag baby with marvellous skill, 



LITTLE TEE-HEE 63 

Placed a spring here and there for the sake of 

the wriggle, 
Supplied its small chest with a bladder and 

quill, 
So that touch it who would the rag baby 

would giggle; 
Just the size of Ting Loo, — she had measured 

and weighed it. 
And now, with the skill she had learned when 

she made it, 
She pinned on the cloak past all hope of un- 
doing. 
And, bearing it so as to start it to cooing, 
Right into the arms of her husband she laid it. 
Thus Chang bore it down to the river Kiang, 
But happened, in passing the vigilant Hang, 
To stumble, which caused it to kick and to coo, 
Till Hang cried, " Awa}^! I'll accompany you. 
I never can rest till it 's safe in the water, 
Lest the mother has bribed you to rescue my 

daughter." 
Then quick in the pitiless river they threw 
What to Hang was Tee-Hee and to Chang was 

Ting Loo. 



64 LITTLE TEE-HEE 

Each day, while the notable Hang U. High 
Was reading the books of the great I. Ligh, 
His wife stole away to the hut of Ar Chang, 
While Chang acted spy o'er the motions of Hang. 
But Chang never dreamed as he watched by the 

wall 
To give warning if Hang at his hovel should call, 
That his dear little wife from its hiding-place 

drew 
The only original Minnee Ting Loo, 
Nor supposed, as he stretched to its limit each 

limb 
To peep at his master, that out of the dim 
Of his hovel two mothers kept watch upon him. 
And it never occurred to Hang U. High, 
As he studied the books of the great I. Ligh, 
That, instead of retrenching on Little Tee-Hee 
By drowning the child in the river Yang-Tse, 
His lucre provided provisions for three. 



THE BELLS THAT MADE HER MINE" 

I THINK no life had ever led 
In quieter paths than mine ; 

I never had seen a circus, nor 
Crossed over the county line ; 

I had hoed potatoes and gathered corn 

On the same old farm where I was bom 
Till the age of twenty-nine. 

For years I longed for woman's love, 

With a longing of no avail; 
I worshipped the sex in the aggregate 

And dodged them in detail. 
Bashful? Of me 't was often said, 
A woman would turn my ears blood-red 

And my cheeks a ghastly pale. 

There came a day I '11 not forget 
Through all the years to come, 

When business sternly drove me forth 
Full fifty miles from home; 

65 



66 ''THE BELLS THAT MADE HER MINE'' 

And, trembling, lest in country ways 

Each stranger I 'd accost 
Would speak to me, I hurried on 

Until my way I lost. 

But fate — it seems an angel now, 

It seemed that day a churl — 
Blocked up my narrow, woodland way 

With the prettiest country girl. 
She looked at me with startled eyes; 

I felt my blushes burn ; 
I would have flown had I not been 

Too bashful far to turn. 

I could but stammer as I said 
To her, " Good -morning, ma'am." 

('T was almost night!) " I've lost my way; 
Please tell me where I am." 

Then she, with timid, girlish grace, 

And slightly deepening hue, 
Spake low, in tones full tremulous: 

" I 'm lost as well as you! 
I started out to find the cows ; 

I thought I heard the bell; 



' THE BELLS THA T MADE HER MINE " 6^ 

But where they are, or where is home, 
I'm sure I cannot tell!" 

O, miracle of woman's voice! 

For with that trembling tone 
She touched the key to manhood's strength; 

My diffidence had flown. 
" Fear not," I said, "no danger lurks 

Within this forest. Come; 
I ' ve heard the bells not far away ; 

The cows shall lead us home." 

Then through the wood's sweet solitudes, 

O'er hills with moss embossed, 
I walked contented by her side, 

Full glad that we were lost. 
The cow-bells clanged across the hills. 

Bells tinkled in my heart; 
The cows turned homeward lazily, 

I grieved to see them start. 

The night came down. The moon's soft beams 
Through June's green mantle stole; 

A sweet night-blooming cereus 
Had blossomed in my soul. 



68 ''THE BELLS THAT MADE HER MINE" 

I 've heard the brooks in cozy nooks 

Sing sweeter than a bird ; 
But music like her mellow voice 

No mortal ever heard. 

The cows moved homewards lazily, 

I did not care to chide ; 
A mystic spell around us fell, 

And heaven was at my side. 
The spell that bound us binds us still 

With golden bands, to prove 
My dross had changed to gold beneath 

The alchemy of love. 

I hear the bells across the hills, 

And bless the lingering kine 
That led my love so far from home, 

And the bells that made her mine. 



TIMOTHY HORN 

The most marvellous mortal that ever was born, 
You would say, had you known him, was Tim- 
othy Horn. 
Tall, bony, and broad — an angular giant, 
And awkward as well; yet his limbs were so 

pliant 
They seemed, when he used them, like rainbows 

in trouble. 
Whose motions no word could describe except 

"wabble." 
And yet, strange to say, in the country, where 

Tim 
Felt confident no one was looking at him, 
His step was as firm and his carriage as free 
And stately as ever Apollo's could be. 
It was only a habit, through modesty born. 

Of trying to walk without drawing attention. 
Which gave to the movements of Timothy Horn 
The boneless, loose, limber appearance I men- 
tion. 

69 



70 TIMOTHY HORN 

Always first at a fire, and first through the flame, 
To rescue the inmates, half -roasted and chok- 
ing, 

He returned with his arms full of people, but 
came 
With his hair and his eyebrows white-crinkled 
and smoking; 

And then, if they thanked him, so strange was 
his habit. 

He 'd take the first byway and run like a rabbit. 

One night, as he sat by his mother and read 

A story of courtship, she stopped him and said 

Very gently, "Dear Tim, you are now twenty- 
eight. 

Don't you think it is time you were taking a 
mate ? ' ' 

*'0h! mother, who'd have such a great, awk- 
ward fel " 

But the word was cut short by the clang of a 
bell. 

And away to the fire sped Timothy Horn. 

'T was the six-storied house of Professor Van 
Dorn, 



TIMOTHY HORN 7 1 

Who had built it, expressly, uncommonly high, 

The better to study the air and the sky, 

With a vision unvexed by the smoke from the 
town. 
The Professor himself had gone up to an air- 
way, 

To shut off the draught, and he could n't get 
down, 
For the demon of flame was cremating the 
stairway ; 

But, forgetting himself in his love for the sci- 
ences. 

Van Dorn brought some strange scientific appli- 
ances 

To the sixth-story window, sat down his barom- 
eter. 

And, holding aloft his new patent thermometer, 

Grew absorbed in a theme he would call thera- 
peutical — 

The effect of the heat on a wart on his cuticle. 

They shouted to warn him; but, horror appall- 
ing, 

The roof was ablaze and the rafters were falling. 

Alas ! he was far above human assistance, 



72 TIMOTHY HORN 

For their ladder would only reach half of the 

distance, 
And a son of old Ireland muttered, "Begorry! 
If he only had builded his bashtely sixth 

shtory 
Jusht under the third, we could rishcue him 

nately ; 
But now he'll be cooked an' dishfigured com- 

plately ! ' ' 
A thousand pale faces looked up at Van Dorn, 
When in through the circle sprang Timothy 

Horn, 
Caught a shawl from the form of the scientist's 

daughter, 
And, plunging it deep in a bucket of water, 
Enveloped his head before any one spoke. 
Sprang up the red stairs, and was lost in the 

smoke. 
Brave men held their breath, but they saw in a 

minute 
The shawl at the window, the Professor rolled in 

it; 
Then it vanished, and then — the roof fell! The 

floors under 



TIMOTHY HORN 



73 



Were torn from their places and hurled to the 

ground 
With such a concussion the air all around 
Was a chaos of ashes and cinders and thunder. 
They are lost! They are saved! — As if blown 
by the fall, 
Tim shot from the house like a blazing red 
comet, or 
Anything sudden, and shook from the shawl 
The Professor, still holding his precious ther- 
mometer. 
Who smiled on his daughter and tenderly said, 
As he dusted the ashes of hair from his head: 
"Weep not for our lost scientific appliances! 
The biggest of blazes can't burn up the sci- 
ences!" 

But Tim, what of him? When he heard the 

wild shout 
Of the people, he tried to, but could not, get out; 
For their praise ran so high, and still higher and 

higher. 
He wished in his heart he was back in the fire. 
There was n't much left of his facial expression — 



74 TIMOTHY HORN 

You would n't have guessed him to be a Cau- 
casian ; 
His hair had the friz of the African fashion . 
Now it happened Miss Stella Corona Van Dorn 
Had always admired brave Timothy Horn ; 
But now, on account of her terrible fright, 
Or, more likely, because of the pitiful sight 
Of a barbecued father and fricasseed Tim, 
She felt a resistless attraction toward him, 
And, her quicksilver heart mounting high above 

zero, 
She, throwing her arms round the neck of the 

hero. 
Aimed a kiss at his lips, but it landed instead 
On his swiftly- averted de-carbonized head. 
Then her lovers, — Jim, Joseph, Sam, Thomas, 

and Harry — 
Broke forth into laughter uncommonly merry ; 
But, alas for their laughter! for Timothy Horn 
Threw an arm around Stella Corona Van Dorn, 
And, swiftly advancing, as proud as a lion, 
Hurled his fist at each smile that he fixed his 

fierce eye on. 
Till the faces of Harry, Jim, Joseph, and Sam 



TIMOTHY HORN 75 

Looked like they 'd been kissed by a battering- 
ram. 

Then he doubled his fist for the battle anew. 

*' Oh, Tim!" cried Corona. "Oh! what shall I 
do? 

I'm afraid you will kill them, and then they'll 
hang you I 

And I'll be a wid— oh!" "Whose widow?" 
gasped Tim. 

*' Why, yours, you dear stupid!" she whispered, 
to him. 

Then he tightened his clasp around Stella Van 
Dorn, 

And that was the courtship of Timothy Horn. 



PROFESSOR VAN DORN 

(the vivisectionist) 

When Professor Van Dorn was absorbed in the 

sciences, 
Or in testing his strange scientific appliances, 
He thought not of danger. Now, his favorite 

topic 
Was grafting, a theme with Van Dorn philan- 
thropic : 
Repairing the frames of disordered humanity, 
From noses distorted to brains with insanity, 
By simply transplanting from some other sub- 
ject 
Such parts as were needed to compass his ob- 
ject; 
"For." he reasoned, "if men can engraft on a 

gum-tree 
A twig newly cut from the limb of a plum-tree, 
Why can't our poor soldiers, when wounded in 
battle, 

76 



PROFESSOR VAN BORN 



77 



Be repaired with deft clippings from horses and 
cattle ? ' ' 

But his science still paused in the realm theoreti- 
cal, 

With cases all fancy and cures hypothetical. 

Long he sought for a suitable subject; the fact 
is, 

He himself was the victim first offered for prac- 
tice. 

Having lost his left eye in a little experiment 
That he made for his grandson's instruction and 

merriment — 
In truth 't was the quite unexpected explosion 
Of dynamile under a poker's erosion — 
He saw 't was an opening so long he had 

lacked 
For rend 'ring his theory verified fact — 
Not one opening only, but many, — Van Dorn 
Looked the wreck of humanity, shattered and 

torn: 
His left eye had left little to mark its identity; 
His false teeth had been blown to the realms of 

nonentity. 



78 PROFESSOR VAN DORN 

And he seemed very old, for in trying to utter 
His words they came forth with a hiss and a 
sputter. 

But, now, to avoid giving gory statistics. 
Without leaving his case in the realms of the 

mystics, 
I will simply recount how he compassed his 

mendings 
Of surgery's practice and dynamite's rendings. 
Every doctor in town was commanded instanter 
To rush to Van Dorn and become a transplanter, 
While servants went skurrying hither and yon 
For dumb beasts to try vivisection upon. 

Then he said to the doctors, with beaming 

urbanity : 
"We've a problem to solve in the cause of 

humanity ; 
This case is superb in accessories clinical. 
Proceed to repair me. Be not timid nor finical. 
Give the beasts anaesthetics, but / will retain 
The pleasure of probing the problems of pain; 
I only regret that, for learning's requitals. 



PROFESSOR VAN DORN 79 

The dynamite missed every one of my vitals!'' 
Then, with mirror in hand and with finger as 

index, 
He gave his instructions : 

"Now, Doctor Von Skindex, 
Anoint what is left of my nose from yon bottle. 
And restore the lost part with that turkey-cock's 

wattle. 
Doctor Oculus, yours is a case of more gravity: 
Plant yonder pig's eye in my optical cavity." 

A cat, many colored, lent pelt to repair 

Not only his scalp, but its absence of hair; 

His dog, ever loyal, provided an ear; 

His brow from an ape's took the lines of the 
seer, — 

Just a touch, to be sure, in a little abrasion, 

But enough to complete the Professor's equa- 
tion. 

There were clippings, and fittings, and stitch- 
ings galore. 
Anointings, and singular surgical bandages, 



8o PROFESSOR VAN DORN 

And terms from the Latin and Greek by the 
score 
Applied to Van Dorn's zoologic appendages. 

'T was done ! and in time each deft suture was 
healed 

On this man who, so lately, was scattered and 
peeled. 

But he found in success this most singular feat- 
ure, 

That his brain had absorbed from the nerves of 
each creature 

That helped reproduce him some characteristic, 

That he now was a physico-mental-linguistic- 

Conglomerate-human-porcinus-babboonum- 

Caninus-f elinus- E-pluribus-unum ! 

To the eye which the pig had bequeathed to 
Van Dorn 

The most beautiful thing in creation was corn. 

The fur, from the cat, on his erudite cranium 

Was varied as leaves on a mottled geranium; 

It sparkled and snapped to his touch, and, more- 
over. 

Rose up in defiance at sight of old Rover. 



PROFESSOR VAN DORN 8 1 

On seeing a turkey, his borrowed proboscis 
Blazed forth and he strode Hke a feathered 

Colossus. 
He pricked up his ear when he saw a raccoon, 
Always felt an incentive to bay at the moon, 
Or to chatter and grin like a playful babboon. 

To a man of his culture and lofty ambitions, 
There was something so strained in the mental 
relation 

'Twixt original self and these beastly transitions, 
He resolved to abolish the organization, 

And is making, I hear, an explosive appliance 

For dissolving his turco-dumb-bruto-alliance. 



WHAT MAKES THE GRASSES GROW? 

I CLOSED my book, for Nature's book 

Was opening that day. 
And, with a weary brain, I took 
A restful stroll, down toward the brook 

That in the meadow lay, 
And there, beside the tiny tide, 

I found a child at play. 

Prone on the sward, its little toes 

Wrought dimples in the sand. 
Its cheeks were fairer than the rose. 
I heard it murmur, "Mamma knows. 

But I not unnerstand," 
While all unharmed a dainty blade 

Of grass was in its hand. 

"What wouldst thou know, my little one?" 

Said I, with bearing wise; 
For I, who thought to weigh the sun, 

82 



''WHAT MAKES THE GRASSES GROPVr' 83 

And trace the course where planets run, 

And grasp their mysteries, 
Unto a baby's questionings 

Could surely make replies. 

"What wouldst thou know?" again I said, 

And, gently bowing low, 
I stroked its half-uplifted head. 
With chubby hand it grasped the blade 

And answered, "Oo will know, 
For '00 has whixers on 'cor face. — 

What makes the grasses grow?" 

"Last fall," I said, "a grass-seed fell 

To the earth and went to sleep. 
All winter it slept in its cozy cell 
Till spring came tapping upon its shell ; 

Then it stirred, and tried to peep, 
With its little green eye, right up to the sky, 

And then it gave a leap ; 

" For the sun was warm and the earth was fair, 

It felt the breezes blow. 
It turned its cheek to the soft, sweet air, 



84 ''WHAT MAKES THE GRASSES GROW?'' 

And a current of life, so rich and rare, 

Came up from its roots below, 
It grew and kept growing, — and that, my child, 

Is the reason the grasses grow." 

" 'Oo talks des like as if 'oo s'pose 

I's a baby and I don't know 
'Bout nufhn' ! But babies and ev'vy one knows 
That grasses don't think, for they only grows, — 

My mamma has told me so. 
What makes 'em start an' get bigger an' bigger? 

What is it that vnakes 'em grow?" 

How could I answer in words so plain 

That a baby might understand? 
Ah, how could I answer my heart ! 'T were vain 
To talk of the union of sun and rain 

In the rich and fruitful land; 
For over them all was the mystery 

Of will and a guiding hand. 

What could I gather from learning more 

Than was written so long ago? 
1 heard the billows of Science roar 



''WHAT MAKES THE GRASSES GROW?" 85 

On the rocks of truth from the mystic shore, 

And, humbly bowing low, 
I answered alike the man and child : 

"God makes the grasses grow." 



A HERO OF LEXINGTON 

"I HAD two bullets in my pouch, 

Two charges in my horn, 
When British red-coats gayly came 

To Lexington that morn." 

The veteran gravely spoke the words, 

Then paused, and silent grew; 
But Johnny raised the lashes from 

His wond'ring eyes of blue, 

And cried, "Oh, grandpa, tell me all! 

How many did you slay ? 
'T was glorious if each bullet killed 

A Britisher that day!" 

The veteran smiled upon the child; 

''You think so now," said he; 
" But the wreath of fame on Victory's brow 

An emblem of grief may be. 
86 



A HERO OF LEXINGTON 8/ 

"Too well you know the story, dear, 

To ask for its repeating ; 
How, back from Concord, came the foe 

Toward Boston swift retreating. 

"A proud young officer passed by, 

And, standing near a wall, 
I raised my rifle to my eye. 

Resolved that he should fall. 

"With steady nerve and earnest aim 

1 drew a bead ; and then — 
Well, then the proud young officer 

Marched onward with his men! 

"One charge was in my powder-horn, 

One in my rusty gun." 
" And killed you not a single man? " 

" Not one, my boy, not onel 

"You're angry, dear, and so was I, 

For my patriot blood was hot ; 
But I 've thanked the Lord a thousand times 

That He stayed the deadly shot ; 



88 A HERO OF LEXINGTON 

"For, when the war was o'er at last, 

The man I 'd tried to kill 
Became my friend, — I see him now 

Just coming 'round the hill!" 

"Why, that is father!" — "Yes, my boy; 

Run to the house and bring 
My rifle, now, and let me prove 

That war 's a cruel thing. 

"You wished that I had killed him then- 
Suppose I kill him now ! ' ' 

The child gazed on the veteran's face 
And fiercely frowning brow; 

And then, forgetting Lexington 
And glory's glittering charms, 

Turned traitor, and abruptly fled 
To the red-coat's fondling arms. 



THE TYCOON 

There was once an unhappy Tycoon, 

Who ruled in the isle of Japan; 
And he said, '* I will take my gigantic balloon, 
Leave my troubles behind, and fly up to the 
moon, 

To a happier realm, if I can. 

"For my kingdom is crowded and small. 
And my people are very ill-featured; 

I never can count on my taxes at all; 

We are sure to have very bad crops in the fall, 
For the climate's extremely ill-natured." 

So he started, and upward he sailed. 

Till the clouds boiled like billows around him ; 
The wind through the rigging hissed, whistled, 

and wailed; 
It lightened and thundered, snowed, sleeted, and 
hailed, 
Till the slumber of terror firm bound him. 

89 



90 THE TYCOON 

But, when he awoke, the Tycoon 

Found himself in a region most fair. 
He was still in the car of his mammoth balloon, 
And he thought he had landed at last on the 
moon, 
And a hundred Moon-people were there. 

They came and most tenderly flung 
The softest of silken wraps o'er him. 

He was charmed when he found that they spoke 
his own tongue; 

They made low obeisances, shouted, and sung, 
And away to a palace they bore him. 

Then he said, "What a beautiful land! 

And what beautiful people are in it! 
The air is delicious ! The scenery grand ! 
Ah! these are the subjects I 'd love to command; 

They obey every wish in a minute." 

But, lo! the fair palace, he found. 

Was just like his own palace on earth. 
"This isn't the moon!" he cried, looking 
around. 



THE TYCOON 9 1 

"Pshaw! This is my palace! my people! my 
ground ! 
Why, I never knew half of their worth." 

Ever after that day, the Tycoon 

Was a better and happier man; 
He nevermore cared to inflate his balloon, 
But he scornfully said to the man in the moon, 

" Don't you turn up your nose at Japan!" 



OLD JOB OKCENBEAN 

Old Job Okcenbean, 

"No one in particular," 
Very homely, very lean. 

Far from perpendicular, 
"Guess you'd better let him be," 
So his neighbor said to me, 
" None of the polite about him; 
Seems to wrap the night about him ; 
Just a little off, I reckon, 
By the way he '11 stand and beckon 
To the lightning and the thunder 
With his old face filled with wonder." 

But there fell a light about him 

In whose beams I write about him. 

Christmas Eve had come, and bright 
Blazed the cheery fire within; 

But without the shivering night 
Trembled to the tempest's din. 

"It is time," the mother said, 

92 



OLD JOB OKCENBEAN 93 

"Little children were in bed. 
Santa Claus is growing old, 

And his hair like snow is white. 
Hear the winds so wild and cold! 

Would you have him come to-night?" 
Spoke the little dimpled pet, 
With her brows so wisely set, 
" 'Course he'll come! I hear the humming 
Of his bells. I know he's coming!" 

To her baby brother's side 
Stole she, and, so joyous-eyed, 
Whispered, "Don't tell m_amma, 'cause 
I must go meet Santa Claus." 
So she donned her downy cloak; 
Not a sound her steps awoke. 
And, with smiling silence, passed 
Out to where the hurrying blast 
Bore her onward, listening still 
For the sleigh-bells o'er the hill. 

Through the town a shudder ran — 
"To the rescue, every man!" 
And among them strode the lean, 
Muffled, silent Okcenbean. 



94 OLD JOB OKCENBEAN 

Great, rough bearded, freezing men 

Through the night searched everywhere, 

And at morning went again, 
Wearing faces of despair. 

"See! 'T is she! The child!'' But, no, 

It was high above the snow; 

On a branch that pierced the drift 

They could see it sway and shift. 

Ah! they knew the kerchief well. 

And the tragedy it told ; 
How an unloved hero fell 

Battling with the blinding cold; 
And they hurried to the scene, 
Murmuring, "Poor old Okcenbean!" 

Swift they pierced his shroud of snow, 
Whispering, "He is dead!" But, lo! 
'Neath his greatcoat, on his breast, 
With his thin arms 'round her pressed. 
Lay the little child asleep. 
Ah, to see the strong men weep 
When the darling raised her head, 
And in pitying accents said: 



OLD JOB OKCENBEAJSr 95 

"Oh! You must not wake him; 'cause 
He 's my dear old Santa Claus ! ' ' 

Then they bore him gently down 
Through the snowdrifts to the town, 
Where they watched the new life chase 
Death from Job's poor, pallid face. — 
Thus there fell that light about him 
In whose beams I write about him. 



IN MEMORY OF EUGENE FIELD 

Brave hearted, kind, he dipped his pen 

In humor's gentlest honey-dew, 

And drafts, more prized than money, drew 
In favor of his fellow-men. 

A great physician of the heart, 

He poised no cruel, murderous lance 
Among its quivering cords to glance, 

But soothed them by a kindlier art. 

He came, unheralded, alone, 
A comet from the great unknown, 
A smile its nucleus, drawing after 
A radiant trail of rippling laughter. 
Men saw, but feared not as of old, 
When of the wandering stars 't was told 
Presaged they war and death and woe ; 
But, gazing on its kindlier glow, 
They saw within its beams prismatic, 

96 



IN MEMORY OF EUGENE FIELD 97 

However changeful and erratic, 
The Hght of love, the mellower lights 

Of humor, that dispel the tears, 

And banish melancholy fears, 
And bless and brighten weary nights. 



"HANNER" 

It was here in Indianner 
That I sparked and married Hanner, 
Which is probably the reason 
I 've a story to relate : 
Well, the world was all agin me, 
And there were 't no good luck in me, 
And my toes grew sore a-kickin' 
At the horny shins of fate. 

On the farm, somehow or other, 
Storms kept chasin' one a-nuther. 
Till they trampled down my harvest 
And they mildewed out my hay. 
Still I 'd time enough to gether 
All my crops in purty weather 
If I had n't run for office. 
Which (the office) run away. 

But my Hanner, in a manner, 
Held aloft the fam'ly banner. 
For she kept the pot a-bilin' ; 

Day and night she'd spin and weave, 
98 



" MANNER '• 99 

While I kept "a-lectioneerin'," 
Till the neighbors got to sneerin', 
Just because she made the livin' , 
And I thought we'd better leave. 

Well, we kind o' took to roaming, 
Till we landed in Wyoming. 

It's the most confounded kentry 
That a Hoosier ever struck! 
Ingen-fighters, woman' s-righters, 
Long-nosed Yankee-pome-inditers— 
I'm Old Business, but what's business 
Where no one but fools have luck? 

First I m.erchandised and busted, 
Till I could n't uv got trusted 
For a plug o' black terbacker. 
Let alone a bag o' flour; ^ 
But my Hanner went to cookin' , 
And first thing I knowed she'd took in 
Twenty boarders, and the money— 
Goodness sakes, she made a power! 

Well, my life was growin' sunny 
With the shine o' Hanner's money; 



L.ofC. 



lOO ''BANNER'' 

But the woman's-righters ran her 
For a Jestice o' the Peace, 
And you bet it riz my dander 
For to see her turnin' gander, 
Supercedin' of her husband, 
Leavin' him among the geese. 

But the long-nosed pome-inditers, 
In j en-fighters, woman's-righters, 
'Lected her; but you can bet your 
Boots / did n't 'lectioneer, 
And I told her, that 's what / did, 
That I 'd finally decided 

That the kentry was unhealthy, 
And we 'd better come back here. 

So we came to Indianner, 
And I must confess that Hanner 
Had electioneered so honest 

That she had n't spent a dollar. 
And my life is once more sunny, 
(Banner's keerful o' my money,) 
And she's now a modest female. 
Not ashamed her spouse to foUer. 



THE CASTLE OF BACCHUS 

I HAD slumbered at noon; 
But at night, when the moon 
Through my windows cast ribbons of silver that 

fell 
Around me, and bound me in fantasy's spell, 
Sleep fled from mine eyes, and my fancy took 

flame 
With visions — but, lo! through my window 

there came 
A something, a vapor, a spirit, I ween, 
The fairest, yet strangest that ever was seen. 

It stood by my bed, 
And, murmuring, said, 
"Come out from yourself. Leave your body 

behind. 
Come, float with me down the far paths of the 

wind." 
An instant, and swifter than vision we whirled. 
Two spirits intangible, over the world. 
Thus onward, still onward, and on till we came 



I02 THE CASTLE OF BACCHUS 

To a land without limit, a land without name; 
To a river that flows, whence, nobody knows, 
And no one has ever yet told where it goes, 
Except that its waters unceasingly run 
Out into the night, and away from the sun. 

Then, alighting, we passed through the outer- 
most portals 

Of a castle so vast that it seemed the immortals 

Could only have reared it through cycles whose 
span 

Horizoned the birthday, primeval, of man. 

Far down the long circular walls, endless throngs 
Passed inward through portals with laughter and 

songs, 
Dividing in groups by the law of their kind, 
The gross with the gross, the refined with re- 
fined, — 
All pausing and drinking; for, swift as command 
Gave voice to desire, the draught was at hand. 
Under palm tree and pine 

I could see them reclining. 
And sipping their wine ; 
And I saw the designing 



THE CASTLE OF BACCHUS I03 

Deft waiters produce in each goblet's clear 

clink 
A vocalized, soft invitation to drink. 
But I saw, as I watched with the spirit's keen 

ken. 
That each one of that concourse of women and 

men 
Paused only a little, then journeyed again 
Down the avenues broad to the castle, and 

passed 
Out of sight through its arches alluring and vast. 

We followed and entered. Through corridors 
long, 

Rang notes of wild revelry, laughter, and song; 

But through the loud tumult I caught the re- 
frain 

Of low lamentations, of sorrow and pain; 

And the tramp of the multitude smote from the 
stones 

A hollow and hideous discord of groans. 

So vast were the corridors, turning and bending 
In strange convolutions, in seeming unending, 



I04 THE CASTLE OF BACCHUS 

That vision grew faint in its effort to scan 
Their limits, or fathom their intricate plan. 

Tall columns upreared, 
Fantastic, and weird, 
Of an order and texture that no one could name, 
For they flashed with the semblance of crystal- 

ized flame: 
In the castle's vast walls there was never a 

stone ; — 
But through them the heart of humanity shone, 
And answered each touch with a sob and a 

groan ! 

Oh! Why should I linger, and tremble to tread 
The chamber of horrors to which I was led 
By the spirit? For now, in the innermost ring 
Of the castle, I stood before Bacchus, the King: 
A bloated, huge, loathsome, and hideous thing! 
Round his beastly, limp lips lolled a sensuous 

smile ; 
And his nauseous, thick breath seemed to taint 

and defile 
All the air of the castle, for, borne by his breath, 



THE CASTLE OF BACCHUS 105 

On each cheek in the throng fell the plague-spots 

of death. 
But with leering, red eyes, dark-encircled, he 

noted 
The multitude endless and over them gloated, 
As they bowed at his altar and cast at his feet 
Whate'er to their hearts was most sacred and 

sweet : 
The mother, her love for her offspring cast down ; 
The soldier, ambition; the sovereign, a crown; 
The maiden, her purity; heroes, their pride, 
And even the bridegroom his love for his bride; 
The priest, who had long and most valiantly 

stood 
By the banners of truth on the watch-towers of 

God, 
Though he heard the grand songs of eternity 

roll. 
Came, and cast on the altar of Bacchus — his 

soul ! 

Then, cursing, they passed 
Down a corridor vast 
That ever grov/s steeper; I saw them, at last, 



I06 THE CASTLE OF BACCHUS 

Reel down to the river whose black waters run 
Out into the night, and away from the sun; 
Saw them sink in its tide, and as instantly lose 
Themselves in its sluggish, black billows of 
ooze! 

The throng never ceases. Forever they come, 
With infinite revel, the infinite hum 
And patter of feet o'er the echoing stones, 
Which forever respond with a discord of groans ; 
While builders keep building, and, higher and 

higher. 
The minarets lift their weird fingers of fire. 
Wrought out from the trophies, most sacred 

and sweet, 
Which the worshippers cast at the Bacchanal's 

feet. 

Still rings the loud song, 
As they stagger along, 
And sink in the river whose black waters run 
Out into the night, and away from the sun. 



THE OCTOPUS 

A MONOLOGUE 

Scene. — A poet's apartments. 

The poet, surrounded by convivial friends, speaks. 

[All drink.] 

Have you read of the terrible octopus, — 

The devil-fish, down in the depths of the sea, 
Clinging with tentacles glutinous 

To the ragged rocks, till it seems to be 
Aiungus growth of the strangest kind, — 
Soft, and slimy, and scarce combined; 
With its circling antennae round about, 
Which ever keep swaying, in and out, — 
Colorless, spiritless, motionless, save 
As they move at the bidding of ocean's wave; — 
Motionless? Yes, when the sea-waves sleep, 

And the octopus sees no signs of prey? — 
Let a venturesome diver come — they creep. 

And circle around him, and drag him away 

107 



I08 THE OCTOPUS 

To death in the den of the monster grim; — 
A hideous beast ! Let us turn from him ; 

For why should we shudder at things so 
vile, 
When the ocean's ripples unceasingly beat 
A rhythmical melody, soft and sweet, 

To the flowers below that nod and smile? 
And why should we think of uncanny things, 
When the magical clink of our silver brings 
From over the ocean, from vineyards fair, 
In quaint old flagons, a nectar rare, — 
The dreamiest wine from the German vine? — 
Let us talk of the ocean, and sip our wine. 

Have you read of the wonderful plants that 

grow 
Under the ocean and far below? — 
Marvellous! Beautiful! Submarine 
Petals of gold, and purple, and green; 
Stems of ivory, buds of pearl, 

Leaves that rival the rainbow's hue ; 



THE OCTOPUS 109 

Spiral climbers that cling and curl 

Tenderly round the ocean rue ; 
Growing, nor knowing a breath of air, 
Growing, and glowing, and blooming there, 

Under the silent sea. 
Wouldst thou see the strange fair flowers that 

grow 
In the parks of the ocean, so far below? 

Take courage; and come with me. 

[Drinks, and, rising with some difficulty, 
paces the room.] 

Here is the ocean; and here, our boat, 
With its snow-white sails unfurled. 

With never a jar, like a swan we float 
Over shallows with shells impearled. 

And now, o'er the crystalline sea we glide; 

We stand on deck, and look down through the 
tide 

Of deepening crystal whose depths assume 

The gorgeous colors of ocean's bloom. 
Now, steady! The sails are furled. 



no THE OCTOPUS 

Cast anchor, and don the diver's mask; 
Now, — down, and never of danger ask; 
We sink to the underworld ! 



Ha, ha! I stand upon golden sand; 

Rubies and sapphires flash and shine; 
Stately bloomers around me stand; 

Delicate creepers among them twine ; 
Strange, swift fishes dart between 
Branches of pearl and leaves of green, 
Backward, and forward, and, pausing, peer 
At me, the wonderful, walking here. 

Oh, life ideal! to loll so free 

In the sensuous arms of the pulsing sea; 

To walk in gardens with sea-rose crowned; 

To sit on emerald thrones embrowned 

By mosses, jewelled and bronzed with sand; 

To gather the roses ; to lay the hand 

On feathery ferns, divinely rare 

As dream- wrought laces; to stroke the hair 

That falls like a silken glory down 

From the perianth brown of the ocean-crown! 



THE OCTOPUS III 

Here is a plant whose flower distils 
Nectar the gods might envy me. 

I taste, — I drink, — oh, how it thrills 

My soul with the spirit that fills the sea! 

Deeper, and deeper still I go. 
I catch the glimmer of marvellous things, — 
Grottoes and palaces wrought for kings 

In the shadowy depths below ; 
Deeper and deeper, and softer still, 
The twilight gathers below, until 
The broken rays from the orb of day 
Fall like a mist, and die away 
In the softest, dreamiest color hints 
Of broken rainbow's mingled tints. 

Here is a plant I had not seen. 
Growing two giant rocks between; 
Branchless branches that bend and curl 
At the beck of the sluggish ocean swirl ; 
Parasite strange, with tendrils soft, 
Long and slender, — they reach aloft, 
And circle around, and seem to be 
Dreamily beckoning: — "Come to me!" 



112 THE OCTOPUS 

I toy with its tendrils, soft as plush, 

So soft and delicate I could crush 

Their texture to jelly with finger and thumb. 

I will trace them downward, perchance they 

come 
From a cluster of modest deep-sea leaves. 

How softly this frail, weak tendril weaves 

Around my body, and clings to me! 

I must know what this singular plant can be. 

The tendrils thicken as I advance, — 

Why, this is the strangest of all strange plants! 

For another tendril has deftly pressed 

Itself in a circle around my breast! 

How long they must be! I trace them down, 

But I cannot see the parent crown 

From which they grow. — The shadows there 

Lie among rocks ; I must walk with care ! 

What magic of ocean has caused to float 
Another tendril around my throat? 
I will remove it and walk more free — 
How it caresses, and clings to me! 



THE OCTOPUS 113 

I will break it asunder — it grows more tense! 
It seems to move like a thing of sense ! 
Steadily downward they draw together — 
Tether me not, for I'll break each tether! 
Break them ! I '11 break them ! for others flash 
Out from the darkness, and madly lash 
The sea to a foam! Oh, God! I see 
The eyes of a demon that glares at me I 



I fear it not, for my arms are strong; 

It binds me with thongs, but I'll break each 

thong; 
Break them ! I '11 break them ! — They crush me ! 

They reel 
Arid tighten around me like bands of steel ! 
It is dragging me down — Back! Man is king — 
Oh monstrous and hideous slimy thing! 



Was it some horrible dream I dreamed? 

Where is the ocean whose depths I sought ? 
Where are the beautiful flowers that gleamed? 

Where is the demon with which I fought ? 



114 '^HE OCTOPUS 

No, not dreaming! This pitiless pain 

Here in my heart, and here in my head; — 
These red-hot lances that pierce my brain; — 
These terrible tongues of flame, blood-red, 
Leap from their cauldrons, and, hissing, tell 
That I fought with a demon, and died, and fell 
Body and soul to the depths of hell! 

Region of horrors, with walls of night 

Swaying, and sinking, and lifting higher, 
As fades or flashes each cauldron's light! 

What symbol is written in letters of fire 
Which everywhere out from the darkness shine, 
Above and around me ? — ' ' Wine ! Wine ! Wine ! ' ' 
What spectres are these? What spirits pale 

Walking like phantoms in endless line ? 
They read the letters of fire, and wail, 

In voices of agony : — ' ' Wine ! Wine ! Wine ! ' ' 
Demons are goading each ghost along ! 
My demons have come ! 7 must join the throng ! 
"Wine! Wine!" 

Ha! do the shadows fail? 
The spectres vanish ! The spirits pale 



THE OCTOPUS 115 

Falter and fade with the failing night ! 

I live! 'T is the sun! I can see his light! 

No hideous arms around me twine, 

For the demons and spectres were born of wine — 

Oh, life in death! for alas! alas! 

Where is my manhood? It lies a wreck. 
With broken masts on its broken deck, 

Which men do pity, and scorn, and pass! 

Wine, thou hast wrought this black disgrace! 
Thine was the ocean, and thou didst paint 
The flowers with colors, so soft and quaint, 

That led me down to thy vile embrace ! 



THE MAN WITH THE SECOND GROWTH 

A POPULAR man was Solomon Hall, 
Handsome and rich, but extremely small; 
So small, in brief, as to cause remarks 
Which struck from his pride resentful sparks. 
Till he stamped the earth with his tiny boot. 
Longed for a cannon and something to shoot, 
And cried, "The people who call me small 
Shall yet look up to Solomon Hall ! 
Ha, ha! By chemistry's magic art 

I '11 change myself to a child again, 
Then give my body a brand-new start 

And grow to be tall like other men ! ' ' 

He coaxed his courage and choked his groans, 
And steeped himself in delicate oils 

To loosen the fibres and soften the bones 
And make the muscles unfold their coils 

He bottled the elements all together. 

Winter and summer and spring-like weather, 

Stirred in the infinite drugs that go 
Ii6 



THE MAN WITH THE SECOND GROWTH 11/ 

To make all animate nature grow; 
Then, taking the draught, he felt it sweep 
Through veins ecstatic and sank to sleep. 
This happened on New Year's day, but when 
He awoke the spring had come again. 

Something, he felt assured, was wrong; 

His body was little, his legs were long, 

And his nose had developed a monstrous prong ; 

His chest was still the size of a boy's, 

But Solomon Hall, 

Though terribly tall. 
Had lost his beautiful equipoise. 
And, lo! A little man, close beside, 
Who under the pillow was trying to hide. 
"Well, sir," cried Sol, in haughtiest tone, 
" Explain the reason I 'm not alone. 
Pray tell your name. 
And whence you came, 
And why you did n't announce your call. " 

Then slowly the stranger raised his head. 

And, looking at Solomon, sadly said: 
"I'm you! Don't you see? We're Solomon 
Hall! 



il8 THE MAN WITH THE SECOND GROWTH 

We're one, and Solomon Hall is both! 

I'm a part, dear twin, of your second growth!" 

Of course in a minute the truth came out, — 
The man at his shoulder was only a sprout. 
Such sprouts as grow on potatoes, you know. 
When the fall rains tickle the old vines so 
That little knobs on the tubers grow. 

I could n't describe the wondrous tricks, or 

What-you-may-call-them, of Sol's elixir. 

But, oh, the predicament he was in! 

The limber, ridiculous, spindling twin, 

As he swung like a pair of stilts through town 

In search of a surgeon to cut him down 1 

But he found, alas! what is ever true. 
That deeds of folly are hard to undo: 
The ingenious elixir that made him tall 
Had wrought the ruin of Solomon Hall. 



JOHN BUBBLE'S WIDOW 

Old Bubble was rich, and fat, and proud: 

Proud of his corpulent purse and body ; 
Very proud of his "brown-stone front," 

The finest of all on the street called "Shoddy " ; 
Proud of the place he long had held 

As number one in the upper ten; 
Proud of his pride, and even proud 

Of the scorn he felt for laboring men ; 

Proud of all but his origin. 
He was proud of his daughters, especially proud 

That his daughters were fully as proud as he : 
For old Bubble supposed a visible pride 

Was the essence of aristocacy ; 
Proud of his sons — but here a cloud 

O'ershadowed the sky of his vanity, — 
A cloud the size of a woman's hand, 

But it ruined Old Bubble's urbanity. 

John — John Henry — his second son, 

Was straight as an arrow, and strong of limb, 
119 



I20 JOHN BUBBLE'S WIDOW 

Honest and brave ; but his brother Tom 
Was a very different man from him. 

T. Cormorant Bubble, Tom signed his name 
With a flourish the fiercest you ever saw — 

Was proud as his father, and, worse than that, 
Was a natural scamp, so he studied law. 

Far be it from me to cast a slur 

At the lawyer who stands as a terror to evil ! 
I but claim that the law, like the Garden of 
Eden, 

In spite of its glory, makes room for the devil. 
Here's health, and wealth, and honor to him. 

The attorney, who enters the tournament, 
A legal knight with an armor of right, 

And a lance of justice never bent 
From its course by the glittering shield of Mam- 
mon. 

Here's health, I say, and a plethoric pocket 
To the genuine knight of the right and the weak ! 

When he's perfect by practice, and done with 
the docket. 
And comes to the door on Eternity's shore, 

May St. Peter stand ready and glad to unlock it ! 



JOHN DUBBLE\S WIDOW 121 

Here's a different kind of a toast — to him, 

The legal gopher, with terrible jaw. 
Who crawls through dark and crooked ways 

To gnaw at the roots of the tree of law. 
T. Cormorant Bubble was such an one, 

A gopher indeed, expert and wise 
In the knowledge of legal gopher-holes, 

But the daylight of justice dazzled his eyes. 

It's a pleasure to turn from the villainous 
Tom 

To John — John Henry — John Henry Bubble. 
But, alas! that his love for Mary Brewer, 

Because of her poverty, brewed him trouble. 
Old Bubble reclined in his great arm-chair, 

In a manner he vainly intended for courtly, 
But all you could say, if you'd studied him 
well. 

You might say of a toad, and that is, he was 
portly. 
While thus reclining, John Henry came in 

And ventured the dreaded communication, 
That he loved Mary and she loved him. 

And begged for a fatherly approbation. 



122 JOHN BUBBLE'S WIDOW 

Old Bubble arose from his great arm-chair, 

With a scowl on his brow and a growl in his 
throat, 
But the volleys of words that left his lips 

Were such as a Methodist dares not quote. 
It made him angry, it hurt his pride 

To think that John, from his lofty station, 
Should go to the poor to find a bride ; 

For in Old Bubble's estimation 
The law of love was another name 

For the law of financial gravitation. 
And he muttered, "If you disgrace our name 

By such plebeian matrimony," — 
Just here he swore a terrible oath, — 

" I '11 cut you off from your patrimony!" 

Who looks for the lion's lair will find 

It is deep in the jungle, in quiet places; 
And the lion in man is found behind 

The most quiet and kind and placid faces. 
John Bubble was kind, but in his heart 

A quiet but brave young lion lay ; 
When his father threatened to cut him off, 

The lion within growled, "Cut away!" 



JOHN BUBBLE'S WIDOW 1 23 

The parson united two willing hands, 
Their hearts were united long before ; 

"Society" curled its painted lip 

And bowed John Bubble away from its door. 

The West was wild, but the West was free, 

Sweet with the fragrance of freedom's balm; 
The poor man's Mecca, the broad domain 

Of God the Father and Uncle Sam. 
'T was here John Bubble laid out his home, 

On his legal share of the public lands; 
But all the capital he possessed 

Was a capital wife and willing hands. 

Early and late through summer sun, 

Early and late through wintry weather, 
He labored on till his cheeks were tanned. 

And his hands were calloused and brown as 
leather,- — 
Early and late, but not alone, 

For John and his wife grew brown together. 
Many a trial they learned to bear. 

For the angel of hope looked down and 
told 



124 JOHN BUBBLE'S WIDOW 

How the sun, that blistered their cheeks, would 
change 
Their emerald wheat to burnished gold ; 
How the frost that wrote on their window- 
panes 
In hieroglyphics that he was king. 
And shot his javelins through their ears, 

Was ploughing their ground for the coming 
spring. 

Old Time rolled by, but he kept an eye 

On John and his wife, and smiled to see 
In every year some added cheer, 

Some emblem of just prosperity: 
A cozy house and a paling fence. 

With a beautiful lawn spread out between, 
An ivied mound, a trellised rose, 

With here and there an evergreen ; 
An apple-orchard that seemed to catch 

Its glorious fruit from the car of the sun. 
And as John and his wife walked under the 
trees, 

Each limb reached down and "offered them 
one." 



JOHN BUBBLE'S WIDOW 1 25 

O home ! not such as the rich man builds 

With the ready gold from his groaning coffers, 
A marble oblation to pride and wealth, 

The wonder of fools, the jeer of scoffers! 
But home! reared patiently, piece by piece, 

With toil and tears, through the weary years, 
Until each separate part a page 

In the book of two blended lives appears. 

Time swept away, but their lives were bright 
With the jewels content, and love, and health. 

Whatever they had they had made themselves, 
With never a thought of Old Bubble's wealth. 

Ah, hope is fickle and life is frail! 

A dread disease came sweeping by, 
And Mary read in the doctor's face 

The terrible message, — John must die! 
He died as thpusands have died before. 

With scarcely a moment for fond adieu, 
But his latest whisper to Mary was, 

"Thank God for the home I leave to you!" 
She mourned as thousands have mourned be- 
fore, 



126 JOHN BUBBLE'S WIDOW 

Grief wrote its name on her widowed brow; 
And everything that John had wrought 

Was more precious than gold to Mary now. 

Oh, shame! that avarice does not lack 

For law to abet its crudest scheme. 
Out from the East T. Cormorant Bubble 

Came on the wonderful wings of steam. 
He came as Old Bubble's expert attorney 

To aid in settling John's estate. 
By his assistance the home was sold, 

And the widow was turned adrift to fate, — 
The home she had toiled with John to build, 

Though suns were hot and winds were raw! 
But Old Bubble got half, and she got half! 

And that was justice, for that was law ! 



GENERAL JIM 

Now, General J. Montgomery Jim 
Was the greatest man in town, 

And everybody looked up to him 
When General Jim looked down. 

It was he who wielded the party rod 

And led the voters on, 
With all the pride of a demi-god, 

Likewise with a demijohn. 

Whenever he spoke men softly wheezed: 
' ' Hush ! General Jim is speaking ! ' ' 

Full many a sneeze was left unsneezed 
And cowhide boots quit squeaking. 

*'I am going to Washington," said he, 
As he jingled the keys in his pocket; 

"The ball of the party arm must be 
Entirely out of socket ! ' ' 
127 



128 GENERAL JIM 

"Now, poys," said wond'ring Yacob Zim, 
"Yust listen vot I tole you, — 

Der Bresident gif our Yeneral Yim 
Ein gab-i-net portfolio!" 



\Ai the White House] 

"I am General J. Montgomery Jim" — 

(The President bowed politely), 
"I am Gen — here's my card — I'm the one — 
I'm him! 

I agree with your policy quitely!" 



Then the crowd surged on, but he shouted back: 

"/ came to consult about it." 
But a son of the sod exclaimed, "Alack! 

He will have to get on widout it!" 

Thus the General left the White House halls, 

And it really seemed to him 
There were forty-two thousand generals, 

But none knew General Jim. 



GENERAL JIM 1 29 

\At home again] 

"I and the President," said he, 

"Had an earnest consultation; 

But we differed, so I decHned to be 

In his administration." 
9 



THE NATION'S NATIVITY 

Oh, marvel of the latter years! — 
That out of weakness, toil, and tears 
Should rise a state 
So grand, so great. 
Its voice was heard across the sea, 

And rang through many a royal hall 
The edict: "Man shall yet be free 
And tyranny shall fall!" 

Kings sitting on their thrones grew pale. 
To see this giant of the West 

Stand proud, in Freedom's coat of mail. 
And beckon the oppressed. 

Through every land the sign was seen — 
In Erin's sorrowing isle of green, 
Among the crags of Caledon, 
Close by the throne of Albion, 

130 



THE NA TION 'S NATIVITY 1 3 1 

On Switzerland's white peaks of snow, 
Beside the Nile, along the Rhine, 
Aye, from the vales of Palestine 
To far-off murmuring Mexico, 
Where hope had been for ages furled. 
From countless heights 
Sprang signal lights, 
Till Freedom's flame flashed round the world. 

Oh, marvel of the latter years! — 
Union of States conceived in tears, 
Before a century had placed 

Its seal upon thee, or had lent 
One mark of age, thine arms embraced 

With giant clasp the continent. 

Oh, Union! born in toil and tears, 

And grim with many a battle-scar. 
Live on, through all the coming years. 
Unshaken by the tramp of war ! 
May notes of danger ne'er appall. 
Thy starry emblem never fall. 
Nor sound for thee thy funeral knell 
Till Time shall ring his evening bell ! 



WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE 

Sublime in deeds, in faith sublime, 

I see thee, Washington, look down, 
Sphinx-like, along the course of time 

In calm, colossal faith; renown 
Upon thy sad, yet glorious brow 
Rests peacefully; as even now, 
With feet that dwell in mystery. 
And lips that breathe no history. 
The Sphinx in patient grandeur stands, 
Though Egypt's drifting, burning sands 
Surge round her bosom, listening long 
For the new-birth and christening song 
Of the young Egypt yet to be, — 
So, Washington, though calumny. 
Like sands by hot siroccos hurled, 
Drove madly round thee, — though the world 
Knew not the grandeur of the soul 
Enthroned behind thy calm control, 
'T was thine in patient faith to wait 
Till truth should vanquish seeming fate, 

132 



WA SHING TON AT VA LLE Y FORGE 1 3 3 

And bring thy people victory ; 
'T was thine, O Washington! to stand, 

A unity of cloud and flame, 
Between thy weak, heroic band 

And swift destruction; thine the name 
Which is, and shall forever be 
The Atlas of our liberty. 



THE SWORD AND BUGLE OF '76 

I CHANT no praise of war. 
I would not see a sword unsheathed, 
Nor hear one note of battle breathed 
Within this dear, grand, glorious land, 
For all the honors of command 

With its triple golden star. 
Yet down the future sweeps a time 
When peace means cruelty and crime. 



The sword within its scabbard sleeps. 
Forbid the moment when it leaps 
Like lightning forth; but, since it must, 
Ye freemen, keep it free from rust. 

The bugle hangs against the wall. 
Soft winds steal through it, and I hear. 
With fancy's sharp, attentive ear 

Held close, a clear, yet whispered, call. 

134 



THE SWORD AND BUGLE OF 76 1 35 

Hark! It is dreaming of the past, 
And talking in its sleep of war; 
And I can feel it thrill and jar 

As with a battle-blast. 

'T is hushed, — save one beseeching note: 
"Have ye forgotten Concord, men? 
The bitter days may come again ; 

Then guard from dust my brazen throat ! " 



THE PRICE OF LIBERTY 

What has our freedom cost ? 
Take fancy's wings to Valley Forge, 
And hear the weird, wild, ceaseless dirge 
Of winter winds among the trees. 
In fancy starve ; in fancy freeze ; 
In fancy die, or, living, see 
Gaunt comrades stretch their hands to thee. 
Go writhe beneath the cruel heel 
Of hunger and disease, and feel 

That Liberty is lost. 

Brave men will stand where bullets fly, 

And die as only heroes die; 

But they who dare to starve and wait, 
As did our sires, in ice and snow. 
For truth, a hundred years ago, 

Are thrice heroic, doubly great. 

This much has freedom cost, and more. 
Far more than this, — blood on the shore. 
Blood on the sea, blood everywhere, 
136 



THE PRICE OF LIBERTY 1 37 

Beside the James and Delaware; 
On Bunker Hill's heroic steeps ; 
Blood where the Tallahatchie sweeps 
Through semitropic glades of palm; 
Blood on the Heights of Abraham ; 
At Concord, Georgetown, Lexington; 
Blood in the swamps where Marion 
Led on his ragged riflemen, 
Fought, fled, and, turning, fought again. 

Ah! who can tell the tears that fell 

In weary homes for those departed? 
Each zephyr seemed a funeral knell ; 

Each hamlet had its broken-hearted. 
And yet they plucked the stars from heaven , 

And Freedom's glittering flag unfurled, — 
The noblest gift to mortals given 

Since His who died to save the world. 

Ye free-bom sons of Freedom, read 
Your peerless, priceless title-deed 

To freedom in the books of God. 
Undimmed by age the letters shine 
As when the angel wrote each line 

With sabre dipped in patriot blood. 



ZAGONYI'S CHARGE AT SPRINGFIELD 

Night in Missouri. The dreary rain 
Lazily pattered upon the pane. 

The watch-dog saw from the cottage door 
A marvellous vision pass before: 
Out from the Ozark's canyons wild, 

Out from the shadow of clifE and cloud 

That muffled the world with a dripping shroud, 
A weird battalion of horsemen filed; 
Out from the darkness into sight, 
Seen but a moment, and then the night 

Drew its curtain behind the rear, 
And the watch-dog, looking and listening still, 
Awoke the echoes along the hill 

With a dismal howl of wonder and fear. 
But on they rode the long night through ; 

Few words were said; no bugles rang; 
The only sound the darkness knew 

Was ring of hcof, or sabre's clang. 
138 



ZAGONVrS CHARGE AT SPRINGFIELD 1 39 

An hour for needed rest, and then 
The bugle blows; they mount again, 
And forward press until they come 

Well-nigh to Springfield. All is still — 
But, hark! — The long-roll of the drum 

Rings sharp before them on the hill. 
Ah! Zagonyi,! from yonder's crown, 
Two thousand waiting foes look down. 

Then on the level plain below 
The leader halted his command, 
And, for a moment, glass in hand, 

Surveyed his giant foe. 
Quick turning to his men again: 

"Comrades," he said, "the hour is here. 
Before us stand two thousand men ; 

We are three hundred; they who fear 
To follow where I lead to-day, 
And, fearing, choose to falter, may; 

Fall out of ranks who will." 
The only answer was the clank 

Of sabres in their sheaths of steel, 

' Pronounced like agony with z prefixed. 



I40 ZAGONVrS CHARGE AT SPRINGFIELD 

Responding for each silent rank: 
"We're with you, woe or weal." 

Down from the Southron's battlement 
Shrill bugles their defiance sent. 

As gentle were the trooper's eyes 
As woman's under peaceful skies. 
But now they flashed to sudden flame, 
And quick and sharp his answer came: 

" Hurl back the rebel taunt! 
Do as I do, and follow me; 
And let your watchword ever be, — 

The Union, and Fremont! 
Draw sabres! Let them carve to-day 

Your names on Glory's arch; 
We '11 carry the rebels back their bay ; 

By the right flank, quick trot, march!" 

Right onward o'er the treacherous plain, 

Through brooks where mire is close and deep : 

Right on, against the leaden rain. 

Without a pause the guardsmen sweep, 



ZAGONVrS CHARGE AT SPRINGFIELD 141 

Though many a whizzing Minie ball 
Strikes home to human target riven, 

And more than twoscore guardsmen fall 
Before one answering blow is given. 

But, on! 'T is Zagonyi who leads! 
And forward spring the fiery steeds 
Until is passed the deadly plain. 
At bugle's blast they draw the rein, 

And form along the verge. 
Above them many a Minie sings, 
While Zagonyi's wild clarion rings; 

"In open order — Charge!" 

THE CHARGE 

As smiteth the tempest, they smite the hill; 

All thought is a unit, that unit the foe; 
All feeling, a thrill of invincible will ; 

All time, oiie omniscient, omnipotent Now. 

Strike, rowels! Fly, chargers! Ride madly, 
and ride 
Each man for himself, and each steed for his 
master ! 



142 ZAGONVrS CHARGE AT SPRINGFIELD 

Time holds the dread balance, and Time shall 
decide : 
One moment for Triumph, and two for Dis- 
aster ! 

How reels the green hill from the chargers* 
swift stroke! 
Hold aloft thy dread balance, O, Time! From 
the crown, 
A thousand poised rifles puff banners of smoke, 
And a hailstorm of shrieking destruction 
sweeps down. 

One moment, and chargers dash mad o'er the 

field, 
No guards in their saddles swift sabres to wield, 
Neighing wildly, and calling, but calling in 

vain. 
For their masters who never shall mount them 

again. 

But Zagonyi's words like a bugle-blast ring: 
' ' Come on ! I am with you ! ' ' And madly they 
spring 



ZAGONYI'S CHARGE AT SPRINGFIELD 1 43 

Right on to their foes, never drawing a rein, 
And their swords, flashing silver one moment 

o'erhead, 
Whirl downward, and rise in swift circles of 
red; 
But on, through the living lines, over the slain, 
Charge madly, and, wheeling, charge backwards 

again. 
Wherever is danger, or work to be done, 
Steed, rider, and sabre, appearing as one, 
Like a bolt of destruction incarnate, rush on. 

Unshaken and grim in the hell of the fray. 
One footman stands proud in the garb of the 

Gray, 
With rifle poised ready, with eye on the bead, 
Keeping ever in line with the rider and steed 
Who are coming with blood upon stirrup and 

rein, — - 
On the foam of the nostril — on forelock and 

mane ; — 
Space whirls from between them; eye answers 

to eye; 
'T is the focus of time — 't is the cast of a die — 



144 ZAGONYrS CHARGE AT SPRINGFIELD 

At the flash of a rifle, the clash of a sword, 
Both rider and footman fall dead on the sward. 

But on ride the living, ne'er heeding the breath 
Of hissing, swift Minie balls singing of death. 
Are they demon, or human. 
These men born of woman. 
Who charge, and keep charging, ne'er counting 

their foes 
Except by their sabres' swift, terrible blows? 
And who can withstand them? — for who can 

withstand 
Fate, riding the whirlwind with death in his 

hand? 

"Three cheers for the Union." The steeds' fly- 
ing feet 

Keep time to the watchword and give it repeat. 

"Sound the trumpet, draw rein!" for the con- 
flict is done, 

And triumph, and glory, and Springfield are 
won! 



LEADVILLE JIM 

He came to town one wintry day; 

He had walked from Leadville all the way. 

He went to work in a lumber-yard, 

And wrote a letter that ran, " Dear Pard, 

Stick to the claim, whatever you do, 

And remember that Jim will see you through." 

For, to quote his partner, "they owned a 

lead 
Mit der shplendidest brosbects, und nodings to 

ead." 

When Sunday came he brushed his coat 
And tied a handkerchief round his throat. 
Though his feet in hob-nailed shoes were shod 
He ventured to enter the house of God, 
Where, sharply scanning his ill-clad feet. 
The usher gave him the rearmost seat. 
By chance the loveliest girl in town 

lO 

145 



146 LEAD VILLE JIM 

Came late to the house of God that day, 
And, scorning to make a vain display 
Of her brand-new beautiful Sunday gown, 
Beside the threadbare man sat down. 
When the organ pealed she turned to Jim 
And kindly offered her book to him, 
Held half herself and showed him the place. 
And then, with genuine Christian grace, 
She sang soprano and he sang bass, 
While up in the choir the basso growled. 
The tenor, soprano, and alto howled, 
And the banker's son looked back and scowled. 

The preacher closed his sermon grand 
With an invitation to ''join the band"; 
Then quietly from his seat uprose 
The miner, dressed in his threadbare clothes, 
And over the carpeted floor walked down 
The aisle of the richest church in town, 
In spite of the general shudder and frown. 
He joined the church and went his way; 
But he did not know he had walked that day 
O'er the sensitive corns of pride, rough-shod, 
For the miner was thinking just then of God. 



LEAD VILLE JIM I47 

A little lonely it seemed to him 

In the rearmost pew when Sunday came; 
One deacon had "dubbed" him "Leadville 
Jim," 

But the rest had forgotten quite his name. 
And yet 't was never more strange than true : 
God sat with the man in the rearmost pew, 
Strengthened his arm in the lumber-yard, 
And away in the mountains helped his "Pard." 

But after a time a letter came 

Which ran: "Dear Yim: — I haf sell our claim, 

Und I send you a jeck for half der same. 

A million I dought vas a pooty goot brice, 

Und my heart said to sell, so I took its advice — 

You know vat I mean if you lofe a frauline — • 

Goot-py. I am going to marry Katrine." 

The hob-nailed shoes and rusty coat 
Were laid aside, and another note 
Came rippling out of the public throat. 
The miner was now no longer "Jim," 
But the Deacons "brothered" and "mistered" 
him; 



1 48 LEA D VILLE JIM 

Took their buggies and showed him round, 
And, more than the fact of his wealth, they 

found. 
Through the papers which told the wondrous 

tale, 
That the man had led his class at Yale. 

Ah! the maidens admired his splendid shape 
Which the tailor had matched with careful tape ; 
But he married the loveliest girl in town, — 
The one who once by his side sat down. 
When up in the choir the basso growled, 
The tenor, soprano, and alto howled, 
And the banker's son looked back and scowled. 



"NIGGER JOE" 

Should fancy bid me mingle tenses separate by 

years, 
You must know the time I tell of was full 

forty years ago, 
When Afric's sons were bondmen, long before 

their briny tears 
Had rusted out the cruel chain that bound 

them in their woe. 
My hero's name was Joseph, but they called 

him "Nigger Joe." 

Not formed for common fancies was the mind of 
Nigger Joe; 
He loved to muse upon the moon, and meteor's 
mystic flight. 
But his pe€ theme was the pole-star, till at last 
for whip and hoe — 
Joseph's never-failing diet — he had lost all 

appetite. 
However fair the day might be, he always 
longed for night. 
149 



I50 '' NIGGER JOE'' 

One evening when "de people," as he called 
them, were in bed, 

When the starry Swan had swept half-way 
along her shining track, 
Joe slipped out to study "stronomy," and, look- 
ing up, he said, 

"If de white hab got de Stars and Stripes, 
't aint much de nigger lack. 

But while his stars are in de sky his stripes 
are on his back!" 

Then his heart grew bitter with the gall of servi- 
tude and wrong; 

But his fancy caught the heavy roll of a 
mighty Northern drum, 
And the starry choirs of heaven raised the 
chorus of Freedom's song. 

While the pole-star sang the solo; but poor 
Nigger Joe stood dumb. 

Till northern lights raised signal-flags and 
waved for him to come. 

Then didn't he go! Poor Nigger Joe! When 
the music made a run, 



'' NIGGER JOE'' 151 

Instead of dragging his time he seemed in- 

cHned to get ahead, 
Though his part was heavy, for, by some chance, 

he carried his master's gun 
And a bundle of clothes, which often broke 

the measure of his tread, 
While two huge pockets — by accident! — were 

filled with a little bread. 

And thus while Joe is keeping time to the music 
of the spheres, 
With feet full long enough to fill the measure 
so sublime, 
Deep, wild, and weird, along his track the 
bloodhound's howl he hears, 
And at the sound with one swift bound he 

breaks from the heavenly chime, 
With a terrible crescendo, into very broken 
time. 

Ah, many like thee, poor Nigger Joe, have heard 
the siren song 
Which the pole-star sang to the sons of grief, 
and have listened, alas, to find 



152 '' NIGGER JOE" 

That the path is thorny, and long, and dread, 
that leads from the gates of wrong ! 

But hark to the hounds! Fly, Nigger Joe! 
nor pause to look behind: 

Death is following fast as the black-winged 
plague that rides upon the wind. 



On, blindly on, with whirling brain. Fear sitting 

in Reason's seat 
And guiding his flight, now here, now there, 

for the trembling midnight rings 
With the hollow voices of demon hounds, the 

clatter of horses' feet. 
And curses and yells and signal-calls, while 

the breath of the river brings 
The sound of the skiff's swift eagle swoop, and 

the flap of its water-wings. 



On, blindly on, with reeling limbs and wild eyes 
scared and dim! 
Poor Nigger Joe! His steps have led to a foe 
before unknown. 



'' NIGGER JOE" 153 

For the hills rise up impassable, precipitous, and 
grim. 

The race is up, and bleak despair finds utter- 
ance in a groan — 

When, lo! a cavern with midnight throat and 
ragged jaws of stone! 



With the sudden thrill of desperate hope he 
enters the black abyss. 
And gropes his way through its utter night, 
and cringes along the floor, 
Now shrinking back from a slimy touch and a 
serpent's angry hiss. 
Now pressing on from death behind with the 

dread of death before, 
While a sweat as clammy as death's cold 
sweat is oozing from every pore. 



He hears the voices of waters wild, but the 
echoes tell not where, 
For they speak with a legion of mocking 
throats, above, below, around, 



154 '' NIGGER JOE'' 

They rumble like far-off cataracts; they sob 

through the midnight air 
Like a night-bird's sad and sombre wings ; they 

mutter and scream; they sound 
Like the laughter of demons or groans of 

ghouls in their caverns underground. 



Is it a breath from the outer world, a waif from 

the dew-damp air, 
That glides behind with a silken sound and 

rustles along his path ? 
Or is it a step? With a shudder he turns and 

trembles before the glare 
Of living fires, — two glittering eyes. He 

stands with bated breath, 
But his heart beats loud with a frightened 

beat, for it knocks at the gates of death. 



The creature is beating his death-roll on the 
rocks with warning lash. 
It is binding his will with the terrible spell 
of its eyes' mesmeric glow; 



'' NIGGER JOE" 155 

Under his heels a stone breaks off and falls with 

a frightful crash 
Down through the gloom into deeper gloom, 

and sinks in a gulf below, 
And the waters lick their hungry lips and call 

for Nigger Joe. 



There is death before him, with glittering eyes, 

and claws strong, cruel, and keen; 
There is death behind, and far below, down, 

down through horrid gloom. 
With walls of granite, and under a shfoud of 

black waves rushing between ; 
There is death advancing, with deep, hoarse 

howls, to the mouth of his living tomb, 
Till his gamut of dread is all complete with its 

different notes of doom. 



The stones along the gulf's black brink are fall- 
ing one by one, 
He feels them tremble beneath his feet, but 
the gleams of those wild eyes • 



1 56 " NIGGER JOE " 

Transfix him there, and with never a thought 
that he carries his master's gun, 

He only thinks of the panther crouched to 
spring upon its prize, 

With nerves as tense as bow-strings ere the 
deadly arrow flies. 

An instant more, — a wild shrill shriek rings out 
and rends the night 
Like a last long wail of agony. Then follow 
the clash of teeth, 
The crash of jaws, the clatter of claws, the 
notes of fury and fright, 
And growls and howls and horrid yells — a 
scream — a gasp for breath — 
A last weak struggle — a last faint cry — a 
shiver — a gurgle — death! 

And men come cautiously through the gloom, 
each holding aloft a light 
Of the pine's red, resinous, seething torch, and 
peering to and fro 

Into the darkness, where night stands guard be- 
hind columns to left and right, 



'' NIGGER JOE" 157 

They find the panther's mangled corpse, and 

around it, crouching low, 
The hounds are licking their bleeding sides — 

but where is Nigger Joe? 

Where is he? Ask that seething tide that 
rushes beneath the ground, 

And bears him on through the earth's black 
veins in a chaos of clamorous clashing, — 
The hissing of waters through shivered rocks, 
the howling where wild waves bound 

Through deep-voiced caverns with echoing 
domes ; the roar of the cataract crashing 

Down granite- jawed gorges, and plunging be- 
low in a maelstrom's mad foaming and 
dashing. 

In utter darkness, in utter dread, poor Joe is 

swept away 
By a current as cold as the rivers that rush 

from a glacier's melting snow. 
And yet he struggles, not for life, but struggles 

for time to pray, 



158 '' NIGGER JOE'' 

For the fingers of death have clutched his 
throat to drag him down below, 

And the rocks reach out long, cruel arms and 
strike at Nigger Joe. 

Pray, Nigger Joe! Thy time is short. The 

cataract howls below. 
Quick, clutching a sharp projecting rock, 

while the wild waves bend him double. 
He prays as he never has prayed before: "O 

Lord, forgive poor Joe! 
He's gwine to drown! Please take him up 

where de whip and de hounds and de 

trouble " 

But the rest of the prayer of Nigger Joe goes 

upward in a bubble. 

There's a wonderful stream that rushes out 

from under a frowning hill. 
As large as a river, and forms at first a pool 

with willow bands. 
And on that night as the moon looked down 

o'er the waters so clear and chill, 



'' NIGGER JOE'' 159 

She saw a dark form floating forth, with 
something Hke head and hands, 

In the current it drifted around and round, 
then rested upon the sands. 



At last, as she watched, it seemed to move, and 
then, with' opened eyes, 
It looked around with bewildered stare, as one 
who would behold 
On the frowning hills the pearly gates of the 
Heavenly Paradise. 
And it murmured, " Dis surely am Jordan's 

stream, but de water's berry cold! 
And where am de angels dey talks about, and 
where am de gates ob gold? 



"I wonder if dis am all a dream? Who am I, 

anyway ? 
I thought I was an angel fust, but now I ain't 

so sho'. 
Whar am de wings? If dis am Heaben, dis 

child no want to stay ! " 



l6o " NIGGER JOE " 

And then he gazed around to find some land- 
mark he might know, 

When, looking down, he saw his feet, — "Why, 
dis am Nigger Joe!" 



While thus he lay upon the sand he heard the 
pole-star singing 

The song of liberty in time with the drum's 
far-distant blow, 
And from a hundred thousand stars came free- 
dom's chorus ringing, 

And northern lights flashed up again and 
beckoned Nigger Joe. 

Then, springing up, "Yah! Yah!" laughed 
he, "I guess dis nigger go!" 



If, as you walk about the town some quiet star- 
lit night, 
You meet an aged colored man with hair as 
white as snow, 

Whose wrinkled face and filmy eyes grow radiant 
with light 



'* NIGGER JOE " l6l 

When looking on the pole-star, you may not 

surely know, 
And yet it's more than possible it may be 

Nigger Joe. 



TO THE GRADUATES 

Life beckons you. Ah! who can know 

By what divergent paths you go? — 

By Louisiana's dark lagoons ; 

In regions of the great Tycoons; 

In mission fields at Heaven's behest, 

Or in the schoolhouse of the West ; 

Down paths of peace, warm hand in hand 

Through wedlock's fragrant summer-land; 

Through joys and sorrows manifold ; 

To penury, or wealth of gold; 

To humble labor, or to fame 

Wrought by your genius — 't is the same 

Strange riddle; aye, the mystery 

Of life's unwritten history. 

It matters little when or where, 
Far down the years or far away, 

Your college bell you '11 ofttimes hear 
Sonorous as it sounds to-day; 
162 



TO THE GRADUATES 1 63 

For memory swings her golden line 
Athwart the years, across the seas, 

And sends you by an art divine 

Your heart's long- silent symphonies. 

And thou, loved Alma Mater, bring 

Still to young minds thy quickening. 

Thy light shall shine; young hearts shall thrill. 

Young brains grow luminous, and the will, 

Trained at thine altar-fires, shall bend 

Each impulse to its noblest end. 

So shall the children thou hast taught 

Cast off the swaddling-clothes of thought, 

And see the mind's horizon rings 

Enlarged by reason's questionings. 

Is this thy limit? No, forsooth; 
The feet of scientific truth 
Scarce touch the brink of seas that roll 
Around the uplands of the soul. 

So teach thy children how to play 
In grander tone, exultant, strong, 



164 TO THE GRADUATES 

Reveilles to a nobler day, 

A dead-march at the grave of wrong; 
And lend to each that deathless light 

By which the world's heart-heroes trod: 
Faith's faultless flame forever bright, 

Plucked from the altar-fires of God. 



IN DAYS OF OLD 



165 



DREAMS OF THE OLDEN TIMES 

Come, let us dream of the olden times, 

Of the Longer-than-long Ago, 
Ere the poles of the earth had changed their 

base, 
Or the Tropic of Cancer had scorched the face 

Of temperate Mexico, 
When the great equator ran north and south, 

As the stratifications show. 

The world had seen but a million years. 

And a hundred cataclysms ; 
It was filled with a terrible chaos of things. 
The germs of dogs, and lizards, and kings. 

And it suffered with countless spasms 
In its vain attempts to assort and sift 

Its various protoplasms. 

Those were the days of monstrous things, 
Measureless boa-constrictors with wings, 
167 



1 68 DREAMS OF THE OLDEN TIMES 

Snakes whose breath was a hot simoom, 

And whose cough was as loud as the crack of 

doom. 
There were beasts with granite rocks for scales, 
With only one leg, and forty tails; 
They could n't walk, but they could jump, 
You could hear for a thousand miles the thump 
When one came down, and it cracked the crust 
Of cooling chaos, sending the dust 
Of rocks azoic above the trees, 
Till it made the dignified dodo sneeze. 
Each one had horns on its hideous snout, 
And it turned the mountains wrong-side out, 
Tearing open the dens of the mastodon. 
And eating the inmates one by one. 

Even a comet came down to see 

That villainous, vast menagerie. 

And stood like a polliwog on its head, 

Gazing in wonder with eye blood-red, 

While its tail excitedly lashed the stars 

Till it knocked three teeth from the jaw of Mars, 

Which fell to the earth; — if you wish to see 'em, 

You will find all three in the British Museum 



DREAMS OF THE OLDEN TIMES 1 69 

Labelled: "Teeth of the mastodon, 
Found where the river Amazon 
Enters the river Des Moines, below 
The Indian Trading Post, St. Joe." 

So, let us dream of the ancient times, 

And of days less far remote; 
We will hear the horrible blomrog roar, 
And the polyglotwoggle speak before 

Man ground the first language-note 
Into ragged words, and shot them forth 

From his guttural, ape-like throat. 



THE BLOMROG 

Ten cycles have rolled away, 

Each cycle a million years, 
Since a mastodon stood on Baffin's Bay 
Moaning and groaning all the day, 

While his lids were heavy with tears. 

He wanted a bath, but dared 

Not go to the marshy shore, 
For the plesiosaurus at him glared, 
And the ichthyosaurus at him stared, 

And he heard the sea-toad roar. 

Alas! he was very small, — 

For that marvellous age, at least, — 
Only twenty-nine and a half feet tall, 
And forty the other way, that was all: 
Just a bite in a blomrog's feast! 

Out from the depths profound 

Of the forests two miles high 
Came the hideous blomrog's trumpeting sound, 
And the tread of the monster shook the ground 

Like an earthquake passing by. 
170 



THE BLOMROG 17I 

As a huge boar rends the clover 

Entangled across his track, 
This cavernous- jawed carnivorous rover 
Rushed through the trees whose limbs, locked 
over, 

Were rent by his rock-ribbed back. 

Then the plesiosaurus glared. 

And the terrified sea-toad holloed. 

But little the pitiless blomrog cared! 

The mastodon begged that his life be spared; 
But his prayer and his body were swallowed. 

Still, bravely to life he clung, 

And, inhaling a mighty breath, 
He hung by his trunk to the blomrog's tongue, 
And there in the hideous throat he swung, 

Till the monster choked to death. 

And the shock of the blomrog's fall 

Cracked the bottom of Baffin's Bay; 
But the splendid pluck of the mastodon small — 
Only twenty-nine and a half feet tall — 
Is a lesson for you to-day. 



THE POLYGLOTWOGGLE 

It has long been my pleasure to scan 

The progressions of life on the earth; 
And now I will tell, if I possibly can, 
In the plainest of English, the story how man 
From the polyglot woggle had birth. 

For I am a scientist true, 

With learning's most classical lingo. 
When I found an old tooth, which to science was 

new, 
I restored the whole beast, hoof and horn and 
tail, too, 
And I called it the hip-pop-o-jingo; 

Which means — but no matter. It 's Greek. 

Thus I won the Academy roses ; 
And the Royal Society asked me to seek 
A few fossil remains that would help me to 
speak 
On the Genesis theme against Moses. 
172 



THE POLYGLOTWOGGLE 1 73 

So, seeking, I found a huge fossil. 

In the Bad Lands of Western Dakota, 
With a tail like a comet, a head most colossal, 
And forty-two tongues sticking fast in its jaw 
still; 
So I called it in Greek, polyglot a, 

Which means many-tongued ; and, moreover, 
Since its eye had the form of a goggle, 

While its "-poWiwog" tail proved the beast a sea- 
rover. 

In order both characteristics to cover, 
I called it the polyglotwoggle. 

When the sea rolled its fathomless billows 

Across the broad plains of Nebraska, 
When around the North Pole grew bananas and 

willows. 
And mastodons fought with the great arma- 
dillos 
For pineapples grown in Alaska; 

When the glyptodon came to the ocean. 

The plesiosaurus to ogle. 
But could find not a word to express its emotion, 



174 THE POLYGLOTWOGGLE 

Then there came a fantastic, most singular 
notion 
To the brain of the polyglotwoggle : 

"Every tongue I will study," it said, 

"From the ape's to the great alligator's; 

For have I not forty-two tongues in my head? 

They laugh at me now, but they'll call me, 
instead, 
The most learned of all beastly translators." 

All its heart in the effort it threw 

Till its learning became the world's wonder; 
But, alas! when it tried to converse with the 

gnu, 
And puckered its lips to pronounce the French u. 

Its tail split completely asunder! 

Then on the two pieces it rose. 

And it cried: "I'll succeed if I can!" 
While the tips of its tail were turned up for its 

toes. 
And it walked! The first biped! so synthesis 
shows. 
And the polyglotwoggle was man 1 



CUSHLOG 

(A mound-builder's protest against the exhumation 
of his bones.) 

Ou-ugh! Ou-ugh! What horrible sound 
Has awakened my bones from their sleep under 
ground ? 
'T is the mastodon's tread — 
Wough! I shiver with dread, 
'T is the man-eating tushbrog with wings on 
its head! 
Through my mound it will thrust 
Its claws, and my dust 
It will hurl to the west, to the north, and the 

south. 
And my skull it will grind in its iron-bound 
mouth. 
In its fury because all the people are dead. 

Azatlan,^ take pity on Cushlog, the Toltec, 
Whose bod^^'s dried up till it's only a small 
speck ; 

I The sun, the Toltec deity. 
175 



176 CUSHLOG 

Drive the tushbrog away, 
Or it certainly may 

With its grinders grind Cushlog to powder 
to-day. 
Drive off the great tushbrog, 
Azatlan, I'm Cushlog 
Who offered himself, when Baltlaken, the 

heathen. 
Wouldn't die as a sacrifice, saying, "Take me, 
then," 
And I died for thee, mighty Azatlan — now 
pray, 

Do drive off the tush — what in Megtla is that ? 
'T is an ape peering down! No, it wears a plug 
hat! 
It is ugly and white; 
It has let in the light 

Through my mound where there always was 
plenty of night. 
It ynusi be a man, 
But I can't see his plan 

In digging around here. Say! Stop that! 
Hollo, there! 



CUSHLOG 177 

Look out what your 're doing! I'm down here, 
— go slow there ! 
Save yourself, if you can, by precipitate flight! 

What is it you want? Are you levying taxes? 
If so, take my vases, my arrows, my axes, 

And leave me 1 He 's mum ! 

He is deaf and I'm dumb, 

Or I 'd show my proficient profanity some. 
He is tasting my dust, 
And he says, "It is rust." 

Now he crushes my skull in the palm of his hand, 
And says, "It is decomposed something-and- 
sand," 

As he twirls it around between finger and 
thumb. 

If you're looking for curios, — scores may be 

found. 
With dead loads of people in some other mound. 

Can't you leave me alone ?* 

I am only a stone, 

Or, at most, but a trace of disorganized bone, — 
He is crowding the socket 
Of mxy arm in his pocket ! — 



1/8 CUSHLOG 

Hollo, up there! People are buried down here! 
Don't mine us, I say! Are you minus an ear? 
If you want to break any one's bones, break 



your own 



Azatlan, I see thee ride red through the sky. 
As thou didst on the day when I ventured to die 

On the altar for thee ; 

But naught do I see 

Of temple or city. Alas! Can it be 
That the numberless host, 
Thick as sands on the coast, 
Of Toltecs have vanished like snow from the 

ground, 
And their voices been hushed in the silence pro- 
found 

Of the ages that buried the tushbrog and me ! 



GUATIMOZIN 

Should you ever conclude to look 

Through the annals of Guatimozin, 
Be very sure that no treacherous hook 
Lies hid in the leaves of the Aztec book 

You would poke your inquisitive nose in — 

Supposin ' 

You could find one to poke your learned nose 
in. 

Near Hidalgo, when footsore and weary 

(Ah! my guide was a knowing young fellow!), 
I found, up a canyon romantic and dreary, 
In an ancient pueblo, perched high like an aerie, 

An Aztec poetic and mellow, 

And yellow, 

With a voice like a violoncello. 

At first he attempted to fly; 

But my guide, with a gesture terrific, 
Seized his arm, and, with flashing stiletto on 
high— 

179 



l8o GUATIMOZIN 

But I saw with expert antiquarian eye 
What made me grow sweetly pacific, 
Beatific — 
Three earthenware slabs hieroglyphic! 

Then a struggle for calmness arose in 

My heart, as I stooped to explore them; 
But I found that true loyalty's ember still glows 

in 
The Aztec's lone breast, for he cried, "Guati- 
mozin!" 
And swift from my fingers he tore them, 
And bore them, 
And weeping he threw himself o'er them. 

How my heart beat with raptured pulsation, 

For I saw in these tablets antique 
A key to the tongue of the civilization 
Which perished before the Castilian invasion ; 

A key I had gone far to seek. 

'T was a streak 

Of bright sunshine to light the antique. 

Then I tenderly raised him and said : 
"Oh! son of the great Guatimozin, 



GUATIMOZIN l8l 

If you '11 sell me these trifles I '11 give you instead 
These beads for your neck, and this cloth for 
your head, 

And this flannel to wrap your poor toes in ; 

Throw those in ; 

And this 'kerchief to comfort your nose in!" 

Ah! mournful and sad was his smile. 

As he cried, " This the great Aztec book-um! " 
Then I added my silver and gold to the pile ; 
My watch, my revolver, and meerschaum; but 
while 

I was feeling for more he sighed, "Took-um! 

Oh! look-um! 

Me so poor, or me never sell book-um!" 

Just then I was prouder than Schliemann 

At the ruins of ancient Mycenae; 
But when^ at Hidalgo, I showed to Pat Lehman 
My treasures linguistic, he laughed like a de- 
mon. 

And yelled; "They are not worth a penny! 

Not any! 

Not a penny, no matter how many! 



l82 GUA TIMOZIN 

" An' faix, I don't care if I tells, 

For I knows both the laddies that makes 'em. 
It 's a Greaser that stays at the ruins 'n' sells 
While Mickey 'n' Pat mixes morthar 'n' shells 

An' daubs on the pictures, 'n' takes 'em 

An' bakes 'em, 

An' they sells jist as well if they breaks 'em!" 

So I 've told you the why and the wherefore, 

How I purchased some Aztec antiquities, 
Of course, without hinting 't was that I was 

there for. 
And now I will add: Very little I care for 

That land of vast moral obliquities, 

Iniquities, 

And for me, they can keep their antiquities. 



THE GROTTO FLOWER OF ELL-BANOOR 

(" . . . So, seeking an entrance through the 
coral reefs but finding none, we sailed slowly around 
the circular, green island to the point from which we 
had started. Finally the two natives, whom we had 
brought from a neighboring island, succeeded, by 
swimming and wading, in reaching the shore, where, 
finding the people friendly, and speaking their own 
tongue, they induced some of them to come out for us 
in their frail craft and take us ashore, which they did 
by winding in and out through many devious ways. 
. What was our surprise to find that what had 
seemed a great, circular island embowered in semi- 
tropical green, was, in very truth, an ancient coral 
reef, in the form of a vast ring, rising from the depths 
of the ocean, and enclosing a placid little sea dotted 
with scores of enchanting and luxurious islets. 
The natives told us of a great, hooded flower, of weird 
and wondrous beauty, which grew in the depths of one 
of their isles called Ell-Banoor, meaning forbidden- 
isle, or isle of death. This flower was of so great size 
that men might enter its mysterious depths: but woe 
to the one so daring ! for the vast curving petals would 
close around him, and, overwhelming him with their 
sleep-laden perfume, hold him there till life went out 
1S3 



1 84 GROTTO FLOWER OF ELL-BANOOR 

in enchanting dreams, and his body was consumed by 
absorption as food for that great carnivorous plant. 
Only one of all the daring men who had sought to solve 
the mystery of that isle of death had ever returned. 
That one (the father of a beautiful maiden who, with 
her lover, had unwittingly landed on the isle) only 
lived to tell the story, and then, crazed by what he had 
seen, and by the overwhelming odors exhaled from the 
flower, sprang into the sea and perished." — From the 
log-book of Captain Arkright, a.d. 1581.) 

Strange and beautiful the story, 
Of a ring of emerald glory 

Bending, like a green horizon, 
'Round an Eden, ocean-born; 
Many a league the ring enclosing 
Held a hundred islands, dozing, 
North of all Antarctic rigors, 
South of burning Capricorn. 

Forth from yonder 's dainty harbor, 
Where the vines have wrought an arbor 
Climbing high, and intertwining 

Through the arching boughs above, 
Swept a bark, white sailed, and laden 
With a dark-eyed youth and maiden, — 



GROTTO FLOWER OF ELL-BANOOR 1 85 

Faces of strange southern beauty, 
All their glances soft with love. 

And the breeze, that gently bore them. 
Swung love's glowing censer o'er them, 
Till the swaying halo bound them 
In its ambient folds secure, 
Noting not the soft wind's shifting, 
Till their boat, unguided, drifting, 
Swept the swaying tendrils, pendent 
From the banks of Ell-Banoor. 

Ell-Banoor, or Isle Forbidden; 
Death dwelt there, by beauty hidden, 
For whoever dared to enter 

Ne'er escaped its sylvan bowers. 
E'en the birds, that shot like painted 
Arrows through its fragrance, fainted 
With the rapture of inhaling 
Odors of lethean flowers. 

Onward, through the deep'ning splendor, 
Walked they under palms and slender 
Waving boughs whose bells, translucent. 
Tresses trailed of golden beams ; 



1 86 GROTTO FLOWER OF ELL-BANOOR 

Down a path that still grew steeper, 
Where the shimmering shades fell deeper, 
To a drowsy brook that murmured 
Mellow music in its dreams. 

On the farther bank reclining, 
Like a shell with golden lining, 
Grew the hollow, purple-hooded 
Grotto flower of Ell-Banoor. 
From its vast and vaulted chamber 
Issued, through its lips of amber, 
Mellow beams, like those reflected 
From a prostrate, jewelled ewer. 

But one petal, lowly bending. 
In a rainbow-curve extending, 
Reached across the lazy water 
Like a drawbridge o'er a moat. 
Silent were its silken hinges. 
But its pendent, purple fringes, 
Swaying softly, smote together 
With a dreamy, silver note. 

"Roo Larmena! Preen sel moor ma," 
Softly spoke the youth, "del oorma" — 



GROTTO FLOWER OF ELL-BANOOR 1 87 

" Dear Larmena! 'T is the portal 
To the region of the blest." 
O'er the arch, as in a vision, 
Passed they to its depths elysian; 

But there blushed a crimson footprint 
Where each shining sandal pressed. 

There, upon a velvet anther, 
Sesile, spotted as a panther, 

Sat they, and in liquid language 

Crooned the story, ever new. 

While a cloud of incense bound them, 

And the golden globe around them, 

Swaying with slow convolutions. 

Flushed and flamed a deeper hue! 

Was it Nature's necromancy, 
Or Larmena 's timid fancy 

That the airy, petal drawbridge 
Slowly, silently arose? 
Ah ! it closed the amber crescent ; 
And they sat in opalescent 
Splendor where lethean odors 
Lulled to rapturous repose. 



1 88 GROTTO FLOWER OF ELL~BANOOR 

Round him fell her shining tresses, 
Trembling to his last caresses ; 

And his voice went out in mtirmurs : 
"Roo Larmena! Preen sel moor — 



Thus they passed Death's radiant portals 
To the realm of the Immortals, — 
While their boat swung idly waiting 
By the banks of EU-Banoor. 



THE END 



WAY 8 1903 



■■Ill 



LIBRARY OF 



CONGRESS 



Q 015 863 464 8 



